A writer must “know and have an ever-present consciousness that this world is a world of fools and rogues… tormented with envy, consumed with vanity; selfish, false, cruel, cursed with illusions… He should free himself of all doctrines, theories, etiquettes, politics…” —Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914?). “The nobility of the writer's occupation lies in resisting oppression, thus in accepting isolation” —Albert Camus (1913-1960). “What are you gonna do” —Bertha Brown (1895-1987).
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, 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, lie-la-lie-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, la-la-la…
[Now the years are rolling by me; they are rocking evenly And I am older than I once was and younger than I’ll be, but 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, lie-la-lie-lie…]
Then I’m laying out my winter clothes Wishing I was gone, goin’ home Where the New York City winters aren’t bleeding me Leading me, 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 And cut him ‘til he cried out, in his anger and his shame I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains, he still remains Lie-la-lie, lie-la-lie-lie…
The Boxer by Paul Simon
ReplyDeleteI 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, 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, lie-la-lie-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, la-la-la…
[Now the years are rolling by me; they are rocking evenly
And I am older than I once was and younger than I’ll be, but 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, lie-la-lie-lie…]
Then I’m laying out my winter clothes
Wishing I was gone, goin’ home
Where the New York City winters aren’t bleeding me
Leading me, 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
And cut him ‘til he cried out, in his anger and his shame
I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains, he still remains
Lie-la-lie, lie-la-lie-lie…