I  am  just  a  poor  boy
though  my  story's  seldom  told
i  have  squandered  my  resistance
for  a  pocketful  of  mumbles
sush  are  promises
all  les  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  quiest  of  the  railway  station
running  scared,laying  low
seeking  out  the  poorer  quarter  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  hores  on
seventh  avenue
i  do  declare
there  were  times  when  i  was  so  lonesome
i  took  some  comfort  there
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  reminders
of  every  glove  that  laid  him  down  or  cut
him
till  he  cried  out  in  his  angervand  his
shame
"i  am  leaving,i  am  leaving."
but  the  fighter  still  remains