| I am just a poor boy
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| Though my story is seldom told
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| I have squandered my resistance
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| For a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises
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| All lies and jest
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| Still a man hears what he wants to hear
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| And disregards the rest
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| When I left my home and my family
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| I was no more than a boy
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| In the company of strangers
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| In the quiet of the railway station, runnin' scared
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| Layin' low, seekin' out the poorer quarters
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| Where the ragged people go
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| Lookin' for the places, only they would know
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| Lie-la-lie
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| Asking only workman’s wages
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| I come lookin' for a job
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| But I get no offers, just a come on
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| From the whores on Seventh Avenue
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| I do declare there were times
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| When I was so lonesome
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| I took some comfort there
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| La, la, la, la, la, la, la
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| Lie-la-lie
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| And I’m layin' out my winter clothes
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| And wishin' I was gone, goin' home
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| Where the New York City winters aren’t bleedin' me
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| Leadin' me home, goin' home
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| In the clearing stands
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| A boxer and a fighter by his trade
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| And he carries the reminders
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| Of every glove that laid him down
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| Or cut him 'til he cried out
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| In his anger and his shame
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| «I am leavin', I am leavin'»
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| But the fighter still remains, still remains
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| Lie-la-lie |