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.
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 And cut him till he cried out In his anger and his shame, "I am leaving, I am leaving." But the fighter still remains
The trouble with real life is that you don't know whether you're the hero or just some nice chap who gets bumped off in chapter five to show what a rotter the villain is without anyone minding too much.
И я тоже.) Спасибо за прекрасное в ленте. ♥
ага
sige_vic,
Полуденица,