Let The Canefields Burn

There's a painting of my grandfather, on my mothers side

In the hallway of our homestaed, in a special place of pride

With his bulldogs and kanakas, back in eighteen nighty three

In a linen suit and a panama, they say he looked like me.

And the story goes he came out, to make a brand new start

In an effort to forget, a sad affair of the heart

So with these romantic notions, to the colonies he came

Where he settled in the tropics and made his fortune growing cane.

Well let the canefields burn, let the flames rise

Let the politicians and the bankers in the city look up

In wonder at the glow at in the sky.

Let the canefield burn, let me feel no pain

When i drown my soul in whisky, and dance in the flames.

There's a photo of my parents, taken in between the wars

In london, rome or paris, i don't know for sure

But it hangs there in the hallway and there's one for every year

Fortunes made, and fortunes paid, for champagne souveniers.

Let the canefields burn...

And they say they're gonna take this all away from me

The cars the cane the homestead, all my family history

Let the auctioneer open... with a price for charred remains!

Let the canefields burn...