I am just a poor boy,
Though my story’s seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises.

All lies and jest,
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest
La, la, la, la…

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.

Lay, la, la…

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

Well I’m laying down my winter’s clothes
And wishing I was gone, going home
Where the New York City winters aren’t bleeding me
Leading me… going home.

But in the clearance stands the Boxer and a fighter by his trade
And he caries 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 remains.

La, la, la