The Boxer

I am just a poor boy, though my story’s 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 running scared.
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters
where the ragged people go,
looking for the places only they will know.

Lie la lie…

Now the years are rolling by us, they are rushing evenly.
I am older than I once was,
but younger than I’ll be, it’s not unusual.
Nor is it strange, though after changes upon changes
we are more or less the same,
after changes we are more or less the same.

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, or 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…

(G2)