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.
  
   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,
   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 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.
  
   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 ev'ry 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
  
   Lie-la-lie...