I'm just a poor boy   Though my story's seldom told   I have squadered my resistance   For a pocketful of numbles   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 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.      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.      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   And cut him till he cried out   In his anger and his shame   "i am leaving, I am leaving"   But the fighter still remains.