The Boxer

I am just a poor boy

though my story's seldom told

i have squandered my resistance

for a pocketful of mumbles

sush are promises

all les and jest

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 quiest of the railway station

running scared,laying low

seeking out the poorer quarter 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 hores on

seventh avenue

i do declare

there were times when i was so lonesome

i took some comfort there

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 every glove that laid him down or cut

him

till he cried out in his angervand his

shame

"i am leaving,i am leaving."

but the fighter still remains