ELIOT RIVERS - "The Last Cane" (Official) | Southern Gothic Folk Story | Mississippi River Vengeance

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Eliot Rivers presents "The Last Cane" - A Delta Gothic ballad.

Immerse yourself in this haunting musical tale set on Mississippi River shores, where ghosts of the past haunt abandoned cane fields. Follow three forgotten souls—a resilient grandmother, a desperate grandfather, and a scarred girl—in their struggle against cruel overseer McReady and the life-consuming sugar mill.

An epic narrative of:
🔥 Ancestral justice under a merciless sun
⚔️ Survival and rebellion among twisted roots
🌊 The river's vengeance stained with molasses and pain

Poetic lyrics evoke:
• Lead tears and carved crosses
• Molasses whispering prophecies
• The last breath of sugarcane fields

🎵 Genre: Southern Gothic Folk / Storytelling Folk
🎹 Production: Timeless Tales Music

CREDITS:
Lyrics: Eliot Rivers
Produced by: Timeless Tales Music

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THE LAST CANE

The Mississippi dragged old sugar bones,
Where three souls clawed at the dirt alone—
Grandma, papa, and a girl with blistered hands,
Where cane once stood like soldiers in the sand.

Now twisted roots and a rusted mill,
Spit molasses thick and still,
Cap’n McReady cracked his snake-skin whip,
“Deeper rows!” he’d smirk, while Miss Ruby burned their hips.

Oh, grind no cane on the Mississippi side,
The river’s wrath and the workers’ pride.
Molasses whispers, Judgment’s nigh—
The sun won’t sleep till the levy cries.

Grandma cursed, “Oh, Ruby, fall!”,
But the sun just laughed and baked them all.
Papa stole a jar of blackstrap wine,
They drank till the moon bled turpentine.

The girl carved a cross in the mahogany’s throat,
“When this burns, it’ll sink the boat.”
Dawn found the mill choked on its gears,
Grandma’s peg leg fed the Captain’s fears.

Oh, grind no cane on the Mississippi side,
The river’s wrath and the workers’ pride.
Molasses whispers, Judgment’s nigh—
The sun won’t sleep till the levy cries.

The river rose in a sugar-fed rage,
Took the mill, the Cap’n, Miss Ruby’s face.
Left three relics in the mud’s cold bed:
A cross, a jar, and tears of lead.

Now catfish hum where the cane fields died,
The molasses stain on the riverside.
Tastes like gunpowder, tastes like pain—
The Last Cane’s song in the Delta’s veins.