The Boxer

I am just a poor boy though my story’s seldom told
I have squandered my existence
On a pocket full of mumbles such are promises
All lies in jest 'til 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, running 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 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
In a-laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was home, going home
Where the New York City winters aren’t a-bleeding me
Bleeding me, going 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 or cleft him
'Til he cried out in his anger and his shame
I am leaving, I am leaving but the fighter still remains