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 got the freeze
Butterfly Boys...give us a break
We got the groceries...you've 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
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 got the freeze
Butterfly Boys...give us a break
We got the groceries...you've got the cake
|