I am just a poor boy. Though my storys 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 workmans 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 Im 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 evry 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 https://youtube/watch?v=l3LFML_pxlY
Posted on: Wed, 22 Oct 2014 15:20:25 +0000
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