I am just a poor boy Though my story's seldom told I have squandered my resistance For a pocket full of mumbles Such are promises All lies and jests Still, a man hears what he want 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
Asking only workmen'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
And 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, 'til he cried out In his anger and his shame I am leaving, I am leaving But the fighter still remains