The Boxer [Gleason’s Gym. Dumbo, Brooklyn]

I am just a poor boy
Though my story’s seldom told,
I have 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,

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,

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,
Bleeding 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 layed 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 …

– Paul Simon