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 a railway station, runnin scared.
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters,
Where the ragged people go.
Lookin for the places, only they would know.

Lie-la-lie ...

Asking only workmans wages I come lookin for a job,
But I get no offers,
Just a come-on from the w____s on seventh avenue.
I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome,
I took some comfort there.
Oooh la, la, la ...

And the years are rollin by me.
They are rockin evenly.
I am older than I once was, and younger than Ill be.
Thats not unusual.
It isnt strange,
After changes upon changes, we are more or less the same.
After changes, we are more or less the same.

Lie-la-lie ...

Then Im laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone,
Going home, where the new york city winters arent bleedin me.
Leadin me, to goin 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 til he cried out in his anger and his shame,
I am leaving, I am leaving.
But the fighter still remains.

Lie-la-lie ...

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