The Boxer

I am just a poor boy though my story's seldom told

I've squandered my existence on a pocket full of mumbles

Such are promises, all lies in jest

Till a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest

Well 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

Runnin' scared, laying low seeking out the poor quarters

Where the ragged people go looking for the places

Only they would know

Only seeking workman's wages I come lookin' 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

In a'laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was home

Oh, home, where the New York City winters aren't a-bleeding me

Bleeding me, goin' home

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

And he carries the reminders of every bloke

That laid him down and cleft him till he cried out

In his anger and his shame, I am leaving, I am leaving

But the fighter still remains