Though his story's seldom told
He has squandered his resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles
a man hears what he wants to hear
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the railway station
Seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go
Asking only workman's wages
There were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there.
Then I'm laying out my winter clothes
Where the New York City winters
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
But the fighter still remains