We had this fine old place in the country,
Where we grew melancholy on the lawn.
Torn between our sunday worlds.

We had a 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 torch-like face I will remember,
That even I couldn't pass off as a joke.
Broken, tokin', drowning slow.

We had a half-starved poet writing nothing,
He used to blurt something out then scratch his head,
Fed the [bad word] 

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 homoual half-world
Twirled around in 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.