In the clearing stands a boxer, 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 shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving" But the fighter still remains
This is the story of a poor boy, and this story is seldom told, he has squandered his resistance, for a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises, which turned out to be all lies and jests, still a man hears what he wants to hear, and disregards the rest.
When he left his home and his family, he was no more than a boy, he was in the company of strangers, and in the quiet of the railway station, he was running scared, and laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged people go, looking for the places only they would know.
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 ev'ry 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
