The Boxer
Mary Travers
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He is just a poor boy
Though his story's seldom told
He has squandered his resistance
For a pocket full of mumbles
Such are promises
All lies and jest
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest
When he left his home and his family
He 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
He came looking for a job
But he got no offers
Just a come-on from the whores
On Seventh Avenue
I do declare
There were times when he was so lonesome
He took some comfort there
Now he's laying out his winter clothes
And wishing he was gone
Going home
Where the New York City winters
Aren't bleeding him
Leading him
Going home
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
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