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The Boxer


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 the railway station,
Running scared, laying low,
Seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go,
Looking for the places
Only they would know.

Lie-la-lie

Asking only
workman’s wages
I come looking 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.

Now the
years are rolling by me,
They are rocking evenly.
I am older than I once was,
Younger than I’ll be,
That’s not unusual.
No, it isn’t strange,
After changes upon changes,
We are more or less the same.
After changes we are more or less the same.

Lie-la-lie

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.

Lie-la-lie

- Paul
Simon -
"Bridge Over Troubled Water", 1970

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