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 the company of strangers,
In the quiet of the railway station –
Running scared.
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go,
Looking for the places only they would know.
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.
[Now the years are rolling by me …
They are rocking evenly,
And I am older than I once was
And younger than I’ll be –
That’s not unusual.
No, it isn’t strange:
After changes upon changes,
We are more or less the same;
After changes we are more or less the same.]
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.
- ‘The Boxer’, Simon & Garfunkel