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...