The Boxer

I am just a poor boy,
Though my story's seldom told,
I have squandered, 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, hmmm...

When I left my home and my 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.

Lalali...

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, lalala...

Now the years are rolling by me,
They are rocking evenly,
I am older, than I once was,
An' younger, than I'll be,
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.

Lalali...

Then I'm laying out my winter clothes
Wishing I was gone, going home
Where the New York City winters
Aren't bleeding me,
Leading me to go home.

In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry 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,
Yes, he still remains.

Lalali...