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 family, I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers, in the quiet of the railroad 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 workman's wages, I come looking for a job,
But I get no offers, just a come-on from the whores on 7th 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 a reminder of every blow that's laid him low and cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving!"
But the fighter still remains.