I am just a poor boy Though my story is 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
When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers In the quiet of a railway station Running scared, laying low,
Seeking out the poorer quarters Where the ragged people go
Looking for the places only they would know
la ---
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
la
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 anger and his shame, I am leaving, I am leaving
But the fighter still remains
