Letra de 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 TobaccoAll 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 goodsDark is the horizon Blackened from the sun This rotten cage of Bridgetown Is where I now belongAll 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 IslandRed 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 breaksThe silver moon is shining Cools the copper blood The living meet the dead Together dance as oneAll 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 IslandAgony, 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 roarCalifornia, we're going homeDark is the horizon Blackened by the sun This rotten cage of Bridgetown Is where I now belongAll 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 IslandAll 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, yeahI 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