(instrumental opening)

Walking through the City of New Brunswick
New Jersey, Central, Monday morning, pale.
Crumbling cars and buildings, rusted girders.
Bankers, doctors and 25 bonds of bail.

All along the George Street odyssey
the buses, miles an hour are three
roll along past Rutgers girls with squeals
passing stores, they went bankrupt
Mayor Cahill, so corrupt
and boom boxes rocking automobiles.

Good morning, America, how are ya?
Say, doncha know me? I'm your black-sheep son.
I'm the place they call the City of New Brunswick.
I'll have cost 500 dollars when the day is done.

Drinks and card games with the young men in the frat house.
There ain't no point, they're too drunk to keep score.
Stumbling to the fridge to get a bottle
'til ceiling spins, and it becomes the floor.

And the sons of Rutgers chemists
and the sons of engineers
ride their fathers' credit cards as if they're steel.
Courthouse stands on Bayard Street.
Lawyers look for raps to beat.
And the hours billable is all they feel.

Good morning, America, how are ya?
Say, doncha know me? I'm your black-sheep son.
I'm the place they call the City of New Brunswick.
I'll have cost 500 dollars when the day is done.

Nighttime in the City of New Brunswick.
Eat strombolis down at Stuff Yer Face.
Halfway drunk, we'll be there by midnight
through the Central Jersey darkness
rolling down through the place.

But all the town and people seem
to fade into a bad dream
and ol' Cahill still ain't heard the news:
The construction crews still kicking-back
and everyone else shows such slack.
This town's got the disappearing brainpan blues!

Good night, America, how are ya?
Say, doncha know me? I'm your black-sheep son.
I'm the place they call the City of New Brunswick.
I'll have cost 500 dollars when the day is done.

(instrumental fadeout)