The Boxer

I am just a poor boy
though my storys seldom told
i have squandered my resistance
for a pocketful of mumbles
sush are promises
all les 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 quiest of the railway station
running scared,laying low
seeking out the poorer quarter where
the ragged people
go looking for the places only they
would know
asking only workmans wages
i come looking for a job
but i get no offers
just a come-on from the hores 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
arent 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 angervand his
shame
'i am leaving,i am leaving.'
but the fighter still remains