The legend lives on from the Meadowlands on down
of the big truck that caused lots of grieving.
The semi, it's said, left a hundred folks dead
and the State Police strained their believing.

With a load of, who cares, 'cause he gave us some scares
he left terminal bay in Hoboken.
But nobody knew, that day his temper blew
that his mind had already been broken.

The fiend was no pride, of Hudson's either side.
He's a driver who hailed from Paramus.
But on that day drove down the highway, by jove
and determined he was there to slam us!

He barrelled his rig like a road-hog, a pig
and his moves were not very prosaic.
He had lots of nerve when he ventured to swerve
and knocked three cars into the Passaic.

The cops mobilized and they all realized
this guy had to be stopped in a hurry.
He crushed any sort out by Newark Airport
and he dodged bullets from chopper's flurry.

He hogged that big road, 'til ten trucks did explode
and we wondered, what could make him that mad?
And Governor Corizne felt a chill down his spine
saying, "Fellas, my driver's not that bad!"

A sniper above made a tattletale sound
and his shots made the trucker's limbs quiver.
At East Brunswick, lurched, and went over the perch
and crashed into the Raritan River.

The Captain radioed that the toll of truckload
was a hundred dead, and more imperiled.
And out of the sea washed the tattered I.D.:
He's the trucker named Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does anyone know what his motive was, so
we can finish our work on the inquest?
Psychiatrists say they don't know to this day
why in murderous drive he did invest.

The bullets split up all his organs inside
but we don't know what craziness picked him.
And all that remains is the long list of names
of each of Edmund Fitzgerald's victims.

Passaic rolls, and Hackensack lolls
on their way into bay named for Newark.
The Raritan flows and the Arthur Kill goes
and when they're all mixed, smell like a sewer.

And six feet below, into the ground goes
the corpse of that bad brother trucker.
But why did Edmund leave them all moribund?
For that mystery, I'm still a sucker.

In a Gothic old hall in Branch Brook Park they prayed
in Newark's Sacred Heart Cathedral.
The church bell chimed one hundred and nine times
for each victim of Edmund Fitzgerald.

The legend lives on from the Meadowlands on down
of the big rig, semi-tractor-trailer.
Fitzgerald, it's said, knew he'd be the last dead.
To survive meant imprisoned, a failure!