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
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