They tell us that we're savages
who haven't got a hope
We're burning in the furnaces,

we're choking at the smoke
They say we haven't got a choice,
refuse to recognize our voice

Yet they enjoy comissions
from the proceeds of the joke
Those Butterfly Boys

at play with their toys
Stinging like bees
itching like fleas

Butterfly Boys
you got the toys
You got the breeze

we cought the freeze
Butterfly Boys give us a break
We got the groceries you got the cake

They tell us that we're savages
who cannot understand
We're sailing on a sinking ship,

we're swimming in the sand
They put their fingers in their ears,
refuse to recognize our fears

And fly off to Jamaica
when we call them underhand