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 hears what he wants to hear
disregards the rest, hmmmm
I left my home and my family, was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
the quiet of the railway station, runnin' scared, laying low,
Seeking out the
poorer quarters, where the ragged people go,
Looking for the places only they
workman's wages, I come lookin' 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
I took some comfort there.
i am older
than i once was
and younger than i'll be that's not unusual.
no it isnt
strange after changes upon changes we are more or less the same
we are more or less the same
laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone,
New York City winters aren't bleedin' me, leadin' me,
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.