The Boxer

I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbled such-a promises
All lies in jest
Still a 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

Asking only workman's wages, I come looking for a job
But I get no offers
Just a come-on from the war zone, Seventh Avenue
I do declare
There were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there

And I'm laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was gone, going home
With the New York City winter's offering
Leading 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