Butterfly Boys - Procol Harum

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