The Boxer

paul simon

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 would know

lie-la-lie ...

asking only workman's wages
I come looking for a job
but I get no offers
just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue
I do declare :
there were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there
la-la-la...

lie-la-lie...

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 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

lie-la-lie...

[now the years are rolling by me
they are rocking easily
I am older than I once was
and younger than I'll be
but that's not unusual
no it isn't strange
after changes upon changes
we are more or less the same
after changes we are more or less the same]