Letra:
(The Boxer)
If I'd been born a street away, another star ascending
I'd have been a fighter, a boxer in the ring
And I salute the boxer if he lose or if he win
Not the cigar-ash, splashed fat men
Who sit around the ring
I want water in the bottle not brandy in the glass
Bruised and battered maybe but a fighter to the last
So I salute the boxer if he lose or if he win
Not the cigar-ash splashed fat men
Who sit around the ring
And I have watched the fighters since I was just a kid
From their struggle through the ghettos to their championship bids
And it ain't just for the money that a guy gets cut and bruised
Or to please the ringside fat men
And to keep them all amused
Chorus
No boxer started out rich and I hate when they complain
They're calling it blood money they talk of damage to the brain
But the poor do not want charity they only want their pride
Better go down fighting than accept the back seat ride
Chorus
I'm gonna miss Muhammed when he takes his final bow
May he go out with his fist high and ignore the screaming crowd,
Ignore the compliments of fat men who behind their cigars hid
And keep the sense of pride he gave to every ghetto kid
If I'd been born a street away, another star ascending
I'd have been a fighter, a boxer in the ring
And I salute the boxer if he lose or if he win
Not the cigar-ash, splashed fat men
Who sit around the ring
I want water in the bottle not brandy in the glass
Bruised and battered maybe but a fighter to the last
So I salute the boxer if he lose or if he win
Not the cigar-ash splashed fat men
Who sit around the ring
And I have watched the fighters since I was just a kid
From their struggle through the ghettos to their championship bids
And it ain't just for the money that a guy gets cut and bruised
Or to please the ringside fat men
And to keep them all amused
Chorus
No boxer started out rich and I hate when they complain
They're calling it blood money they talk of damage to the brain
But the poor do not want charity they only want their pride
Better go down fighting than accept the back seat ride
Chorus
I'm gonna miss Muhammed when he takes his final bow
May he go out with his fist high and ignore the screaming crowd,
Ignore the compliments of fat men who behind their cigars hid
And keep the sense of pride he gave to every ghetto kid
