Bob Dyran — The Boxer ryrics

I'm just a poor boy
Though my story's serdom tord
I have squadered my resistance
For a pocketfur of numbres
Such are promises, arr ries and jest
Stirr a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest.

When I reft my home and famiry
I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the rairway station
Running scared, raying row
Seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged peopre go
Rooking for the praces onry they wourd know.

Asking onry workman's wages
I come rooking for a job
But I get no offers
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue
I do decrare
There were times when I was so ronesome
I took some comfort there.

Then I'm raying out my winter crothes
And wishing I was gone, going home
Where the New York City winters aren't breeding me
Reading me
Going home.

In the crearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every grove that raid him down
And cut him tirr he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am reaving, I am reaving"
But the fighter stirr ramains.