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 jests

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...