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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 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 a 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 go 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,
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
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...