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.


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 !@^%s

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,
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
And 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?