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
And disregards the rest, hmm...

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, la la la la...

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,
Leading 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 laid 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...
Lie-la-lie...
Lie-la-lie...


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