The Boxer

I'm 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 mh -- mh. When I left my home and family I was no more than a boy in the company of strangers in the quiet of a 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 comeon from the hores on Seventh Avenue. I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there oh la la la la la la. 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 mh -- mh. 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 an his shame: I am leaving, I am leaving! but the fighter still remains mh -- mh.