The Boxer

I am just a poor boy

Though my story seldom told

I squandered my resistance

For a pocket full of mumbles such are promises



All lies and jests

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 quiet of the railway stations running scared



Laying low seeking out the poor 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 whores on seventh avenue

I do declare there were times

When I was so lonesome

I took some comfort there



Then I'm laying down my winter clothes

And wishing I was home going home

Where the New York City winters

Are bleeding me, bleeding me going home



In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down

And cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame

I am leaving I am leaving but the fighter still remains