The boxer

I am 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, 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 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 Seventh Avenue I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there Lie-la-lie . . . Now the years are rolling by me The are rocking easily I am older than I once was And younger than I’ll be But that’s not unusual No, it isn’t strange After changes upon changes We are more or less the same After changes we are More or less the same 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 remainders 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 Lie-la-lie . . .