I am a folk musician, but my songs are seldom sold
For I massacre folk music with 3 feet of Spanish chipboard and a capo.
I do requests, but just those with only two chords--I disregard the rest—
And with Dylan's luck, someday I'll be the best.

Seeking free food and expenses, I come looking for a gig, but I get no offers;
Just a come-on from a groupie here in (insert place name).
I do declare, I've had trouble with my sex life since I fell and broke my wrist—
Hey, my other songs are just as bad as this!

CHO.: Lye lye lye, etc.

I left my home with a repertoire of my all-time favourite songs,
And a music stand with a neon sign that says "Let's play along, I'm doing favourites…"
Sinking low, playing Weaver's hits for quarters to a reggae dance tempo,
Looking for the chords I guess I'll never know. CHO.

And when I sing traditional, I stick my finger in my ear
Because half the songs I sing, I just can't stand to hear—but I'm an artist!
Bar after bar, to the rhythm of a Chrysler--one string out of tune—guitar
Lye lye lye lye lye lye lye lye lye lye lye… CHO.

And in (insert place name), I clean forgot the 42nd verse,
So I sang the 27th --TWICE AS LOUD--and in reverse and no one noticed.
I stood and bowed. I took a long look at my wrist watch, took a survey of the crowd—
Thank God they never listen! But they still say it's too loud! CHO.

I stand here on the stage—a folkie by my trade—
And I carry the reminders of every gig I played,
Like last Thursday at the Legion, when I fled in mortal fear
With the imprint of a Guinness bottle stamped upon my ear
And a crowed that yelled—"DON'T PLAY THAT STUFF ROUND HERE!" CHO.

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,
Hmmm, hmmm.

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 lookin' 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...

[Now the years are rolling by me, they are rocking evenly.
I am older than I once was and 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, goin' home,
Where the New York City winters aren't bleedin' me,
Leadin' me, [to] 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...(8x)

- - -
* This verse is omitted on the album "Bridge over Troubled Water" but it is included on other recordings such as "Paul Simon in Concert: Live Rhymin'" (1974)

I believe the Boxer parody is entitled The Folker and the double-entendre would have been intentional.
I think the penultimate verse should read:

"And in Sir Patrick Spence, I clean forgot the 42nd verse,
So I sang the 27th --TWICE AS LOUD--and in reverse, and no one noticed..."

AndyG