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.
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 remainders
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 . . .
