randeclip
book o' file 365 Days (Year 2) #122 03/01
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 a railway station- runnin’ scared.
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go.
Lookin’ for the places only they would know.
Asking only workman’s wages I come lookin’ 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.
Then I’m laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone-
Going home;
Where the New York city winters aren’t bleedin’ me.
Leadin’ me, to goin’ 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 ’til he cried out in his anger and his shame:
"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains.
book o' file 365 Days (Year 2) #122 03/01
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 a railway station- runnin’ scared.
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go.
Lookin’ for the places only they would know.
Asking only workman’s wages I come lookin’ 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.
Then I’m laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone-
Going home;
Where the New York city winters aren’t bleedin’ me.
Leadin’ me, to goin’ 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 ’til he cried out in his anger and his shame:
"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains.