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 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.

Lie la lie
Lie la lie lie, lie la lie,
Lie la lie.
Lie la lie lie, lie la lie,
La la la 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.

Now the years are rolling by me,
they are rocking evenly.
I am older than I once was,
but 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.

Lie la lie.
Lie la lie lie, lie la lie,
Lie la lie.
Lie la lie lie, lie la lie,
La la la la lie.

Then I'm laying out my winter clothes
and wishing I was gone.
Going home
where the New York City winters
wren'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 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.

Lie la lie.
Lie la lie lie, lie la lie,
Lie la lie.
Lie la lie lie, lie la lie,
La la la la lie.
Lie la lie lie, lie la lie?