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,

mmh mhh...

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

runnin’ 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 whores

on Seventh Avenue.

I do declare

there were times when I was so lonesome

I took some comfort there,

la la la...

Lie la lie...

Then I’m laying out my winter clothes

and wishing I was gone,

goin’ home,

where the New York City winters

aren’t bleedin’ me,

leadin’ me

goin’ 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,

mmh mhh...

Lie la lie...