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 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 ...
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
lie la lie ...
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
bleeding 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 layed 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 ...