I'm just a poor boy
  Though my story's seldom told
  I have squadered my resistance
  For a pocketful of numbles
  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 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 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.
    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 every glove that laid him down
  And cut him till he cried out
  In his anger and his shame
  "I am leaving, I am leaving"
  But the fighter still ramains.