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