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