I am just a poor boy
Though my story seldom told
I 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 [bad word] of strangers
In the quiet of the railway [bad word] scared

Laying low seeking out the poor quarters
Where the ragged people go
Looking for the places
Only they would know

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

Then I'm laying down my winter clothes
And wishing I was home going home
Where the New York City winters
Are bleeding me, bleeding me going home

In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminder of every 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