Oh, South Jersey, you craggy black thing.
Oh, cedar water for you I sing.
Take me back. Take me back.
Sing it up north.
We are the Pineys of the preservation.
We are the Monocans of the Sioux nation.
Tabernacle, Chatsworth, Shamong, Medford Lakes.
The lands where the strawberries grow.

Indians. Natives. Men who play spoons.
Country songs. Candlelight. Wood-paneled rooms.
Carpenters. Farmers. Dinner at two.
Visiting on Sundays. What else is there to do?

Where is the guitar?
In the old bar?
Only the records on our stereo.
Where is the music?
On the screen porch?
Why don't we teach our sons our traditions?
Why don't we talk to our kids and our women?

Men of the pines
don't say a word.
We study the cornfields.
We listen to birds.

I never had one chance
in those Jersey pines
to do something pretty
like that girl of mine.

Always too quiet, 
working too hard
but give me a chance now
and I'll come along.

I'm kind of an old man.
I don't really mind, 
when I hear this new music
of the South Jersey pines.

It brings me back to them, 
the Red Deer clan.
And yes that makes me
a fascinating man. 

Oh, South Jersey, you craggy black thing.
Oh, cedar water for you I sing.
Take me back. Take me back.
Sing it up north.
We are the Pineys of the preservation.
We are the Monocans of the Sioux nation.
Tabernacle, Chatsworth, Shamong, Medford Lakes.
The lands where the strawberries grow.