The Boxer

I am just a poor boy
though my story's seldom told.
I have squandered my resistance
for a pocketful of mumbles,
such are promises.
All lies and jest.
Still, a man hears what he wants to hear
and disregards the rest.
Mmm.......
Mmm.......
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 station
running scared.
Laying low,
seeking out the poorer quarters
where the ragged people go.
Looking for the places
only they would know.
Lie-la-lie.....
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.
Lie-la-lie.....
Lie-la-lie.....
Lie-la-lie .....
Then I'm laying out
my winter clothes
and wishing I was gone.
Going home,
where the New York City winters
aren't bleeding me.
Leading me
going home.
In the clearing stands a boxer,
and a fighter by his trade.
And he carries the reminders
of ev'ry glove that laid him down
or cut him till he cried out.
In his anger and his shame,
'I am leaving, I am leaving.'
But the fighter still remains.
Mmm............
Lie-la-lie..............Lie-la-lie
Lie-la-lie.. ............Lie-la-lie
Lie-la-lie..............Lie-la-lie
Lie-la -lie..............Lie-la-lie