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 family, I's no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the railway station, running scared, laying low,
Seeking out the poorer 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 7th Avenue.
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there. Well, 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