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 [bad word] of strangers
 In the quiet of the railway station,
 [bad word] 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
 [bad word] looking for a job,
 But I get no offers,
 Just [bad word] on from the whores
 On Seventh Avenue
 I do declare,
 There were times when I was so
 Lonesome
 I took [bad word] 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,
 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
 And 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…