I am just a poor boy. Though my story's seldom told, I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of numbles, 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, 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, Lie la lie la lie la lie lie la lie Lie la lie la la la la Lie la la la la lie. Asking only workman's wages I come looking for a job, but I get no offers, Just a comeon from the whores on Seventh Avenue. I do declare, there were times when I was so lone some I took some comfort there. Ooo la la la la la la. 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. 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 sh? "I am leaving. I am leaving." But the fighter still remains. Lie la lie...