The Boxer

I am just a poor boy Though my story's seldom told I squandered my resistance For a pocket full of mumbles such are promises All lies and jests Still a man hears What he wants to hear And disregards the rest When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy In the company of strangers In the quiet of the railway stations running scared Laying low seeking out the poor quarters Where the ragged people go Looking for the places Only they would know Asking only workman's wages I come looking for a job But I get no offers Just a come on From the whores on seventh avenue I do declare there were times When I was so lonesome I took some comfort there Then I'm laying down my winter clothes And wishing I was home going home Where the New York City winters Are bleeding me, bleeding me going home In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down And cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame I am leaving I am leaving but the fighter still remains