Life As A Writer

The Boxer
Paul Simon

"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 family
I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers,
In the quiet of the railroad station, runnin' scared,
Layin' 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 7th Avenue.
I do declare
There were times when I was so lonesone
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 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 blow that's laid him low
And cut him 'til he cried out
In his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving,"
But the fighter still remains."


We do what is in our nature to do.