The Boxer-The Celtic Tenors

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, but disregards the rest. Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm When I left my home and 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 Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie Lie-la-lie Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie, lie-lie-lie-lie-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. La-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. In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade, and he carries the reminders of every glove that laid 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. Mm-mm-mm Lie-la-lie Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie Lie-la-lie Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie, lie-lie-lie-lie-lie Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie Lie-la-lie Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie, lie-lie-lie-lie-lie Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie Lie-la-lie Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie, lie-lie-lie-lie-lie Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie Lie-la-lie Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie, lie-lie-lie-lie-lie