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 the 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 quiet of the railway station
Running scared
Laying low
Seeking out the poorer quarters
where the reagged 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 7-th avenue
I do declare
There were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there
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 the fighter by his trade
And he carries the remainders
of ev’ry glove that laid him down
or cut him till he cried out
In his anger in his shame
I am leaving, I am leaving
But the fighter still remains…
Lie – la – lie