Tobacco Island

Write down
This is all
It's a song which is a
A part of Irish history at its ugliest
Like many many years ago when a
A certain man called Oliver Cromwell
Shipped a...
Shipped hundreds of thousand of people from Ireland
To Barbados
This is where those beautiful people
It's a thing we call Tobacco

All to hell, we must sail for the shores of sweet Barbados
The sugar cane grows taller than the god we once believed in
The butcher and his crown raped the land we used to sleep in
Tomorrow chimes of ghostly crimes that haunt Tobacco Island

'Twas 1659 forgotten now for sure
They dragged us from our homeland with the musket and their gun
Cromwell and his roundheads battered all we knew
Shackled hopes of freedom, we're naught but stolen goods

Dark is the horizon
Blackened from the sun
This rotten cage of Bridgetown
Is where I now belong

All to hell, we must sail for the shores of sweet Barbados
Where the sugar cane grows taller than the god we once believed in
The butcher and his crown raped the land we used to sleep in
Tomorrow chimes of ghostly crimes that haunt Tobacco Island

Red leg, down a peg, blistered burns the soul
The floggings they're a plenty but reasons there are none
Our backs belong to landlords, where branded is there name
Paid for with ten shillings, cheap labor never breaks

The silver moon is shining
Cools the copper blood
The living meet the dead
Together dance as one

All to hell, we must sail for the shores of sweet Barbados
Sugar cane grows taller than the god we once believed in
The butcher and his crown raped the land we used to sleep in
Tomorrow chimes of ghostly crimes that haunt Tobacco Island

Agony, will you cleanse this misery?
For it's never again I'll breathe (people of Los Angeles, we need your helping hands)
From this sandy edge (come on), the rolling sea breaks my revenge
And with each whisper a thousand waves, I hear roar

California, we're going home

Dark is the horizon
Blackened by the sun
This rotten cage of Bridgetown
Is where I now belong

All to hell, we must sail for the shores of sweet Barbados
The sugar cane grows taller than the god we once believed in
The butcher and his crown raped the land we used to sleep in
Tomorrow chimes of ghostly crimes that haunt Tobacco Island

All to hell, we must sail for the shores of sweet Barbados
The sugar cane grows taller than the god we once believed in
The butcher and his crown raped the land we used to sleep in
Tomorrow chimes of ghostly crimes that haunt Tobacco Island, yeah

I suppose
There's nothing like a good song written about a bad bastard, is there...?
Speaking of bad bastards, a young man down here
Who has a T-shirt that says "Who the fuck is Mick Jagger"
Bridget just followed me down a couple of weeks ago
I swear to God, I have the same fuckin' T-shirt
And what did the people at our village do?
Oh, the maid who'd have made and then
Who the fuck is Dave King anyway
What's more important who the hell cares
But so many you should care a lot about
I certainly do
She's been playing fiddle for you and
Singing New York tune here now
Los Angeles, California put your beautiful hands together
For my beautiful wife Mrs. Bridget Regan