| We had this fine old place in the country
 | 
| Where we grew melancholy on the lawn
 | 
| Torn between our Sunday worlds
 | 
| We had girl there who rode a motorcycle
 | 
| Moving at ninety miles an hour
 | 
| Towering six feet black
 | 
| Yes we all used to wonder what was happening
 | 
| When we danced half naked in the night
 | 
| Right or wrong we carried on
 | 
| The sons of Cain yeah ooh
 | 
| The sons of Cain yeah ooh
 | 
| The sons of Cain
 | 
| Are Abel
 | 
| We never had such a thing as conversation
 | 
| We used to stare so blindly caring not
 | 
| What was eating at our brains
 | 
| There is a torchlight face I will remember
 | 
| That even I couldn’t pass off as a joke
 | 
| Broken token drowning slow
 | 
| We had a half starved poet writing nothing
 | 
| He used to blurt something out
 | 
| Then scratch his head
 | 
| Felt the sickness ruefully
 | 
| The sons of Cain yeah ooh
 | 
| The sons of Cain and only ooh
 | 
| The sons of Cain
 | 
| Are Abel
 | 
| As I was walking slowly through the lovely garden
 | 
| And someone’s sick homosexual half world
 | 
| Twirled around it maybe love
 | 
| And then when God made summer into autumn
 | 
| Just like the leaves everyone began to fall
 | 
| All, was empty I left too
 | 
| The sons of Cain yeah ooh
 | 
| The sons of Cain and only ooh
 | 
| The sons of Cain
 | 
| Are Abel
 | 
| The sons of Cain yeah ooh
 | 
| The sons of Cain and only ooh
 | 
| The sons of Cain
 | 
| Are Abel |