I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told I've 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 Asking only workman's wages, I come looking for a job but I get no offers Just to come on from the whores on 7th Avenue I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there La la la la la la la And the years are rolling by me, they are rocking evenly I am older than I once was, and younger than I'll be, that's not unusual It isn't strange, after changes upon changes, we are more or less the same After changes, we are more or less the same La la la la la la la 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 Bleeding me to going home In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his train And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down Or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains La la la la la la la La la la la la la la