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 the man hears what he wants to hear

And disregards the rest

When I left my home and 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

La la li

La la la la li la li

La la li

La la la la la la li la la la li

Asking only workman's wages I come looking for a job

But I get no offers

Just a come-on from some bitch

On Seventh Avenue

I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome

I took some comfort there, la la la la la la

And 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 every glove that laid him down or cut him

'til he cried out in his anger and his shame

I am leaving, I am leaving

But the fighter still remains

La la la la la la la la la li

Yeay! Yeay! Yeay! Ow!