(Brian Woodbury/Michael Webster)

I want to work in the Brill Building,
writin’ the hits for some new girlie group to sing.
And all of the song-pluggers give me a ring,
instead of nothin’.

I want to work in the Brill Building,
hackin’ away there in some publisher’s wing,
with Lieber and Stoller and Goffin and King,
at the Brill Building…

The business today, well, it isn’t the same.
They won’t let you in if they don’t know your name.
So pound the pavement and play the game.

But where is the place to bring my song
to someone who won’t ignore it?
And three back-up girls to sing along?
An orchestra cat to score it?
I’d hop in a cab and floor it
for that Brill Building.

I cannot work in the Brill Building.
No music now, it’s just your standard corporate thing:
temping and typing and coffee to bring,
and doin’ nothin’.

So I’m singin’ this song to the Brill Building,
till the cops show up and haul me off for loitering.
My tin pan is out, but there’s no ka-ching,
at the Brill Building.

You can’t send a song to some old yesteryear.
Or bury it now for the future to hear.
But I’m not ready to disappear.

So give me back all the dues I’ve paid,
with no interest to show for it.
Give back the struggle that I made.
Give back the hope that bore it,
having the world ignore it.

And you can keep your Brill Building.
Yeah, you can keep your Brill Building.
’Cause I don’t need your Brill Building.
I’ll build my own Brill Building.
Song by song, I’ll build my own Brill Building.