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 he 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 only for the places 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 Seventh Avenue

I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome

I took some comfort there

Then I’m hanging 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 reminder

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 remains