I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom toldI have squandered my resistanceFor a pocket full of mumble, such are promisesAll eyes in jest, still a man hearsWhat he wants to hear, but disregards the restWhen I left my home and family, I was no more than a boyIn the company of strangersIn the quiet of a railway station, running scaredLaying low, seeking out the poor quartersWhere the ragged people goLooking for the places only they would knowI am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom toldLai-lai-laiAsking only workman's wagesI come looking for a job, but I get no offersJust a come-on from the whores on Seventh AvenueI do declareThere were times when I was so lonesomeI took some comfort thereLa-la-la-la-la-la-laThen I'm laying out my windowI'm laying out my windowClosing, wishing I was goneGoing homeWhere the New York City winters are a-bleeding meBleeding meGoing homeIn the clearing stands a boxerAnd a fighter by his tradeAnd he carries the remindersOf every day of my lifeOf every glove that laid him downOr caught him till he cried outIn his anger and his shameI am leaving, I am leavingbut the fighter still remainsLai-la-laiLai-la-lai-lai Lai-lai-laiLai-la-laiLai-la-laiLai-lai-laiLai-lai-laiLa-la-la-laiLa-la-la-laiBye.Bye.