Or I prefer the poetry of Claude; "Empire" - Philip Larkin Style Poem They like to say we ran it, but that's rot— Four thousand civil servants, mostly Scots, Administered the theft. Perfidious? What A polite way to describe the bleeding clots Who found, once rid of those damned Colonials (The troublesome New World rabble, good riddance), That profits multiplied. The memorials Don't mention this: divide and rule. The differenceBetween collaboration and conquest? None. Just make the local princes rich as Croesus, Watch them sell their people by the ton. Mohammedan friends—oh yes, they helped us fleece us Our moral betters. Opium down Chinese throats At gunpoint. "Free trade," they called it. Christ. The Raj, the loot, the ledgers, the banknotes— All built on making sure the conquered priced Their dignity below our profit margin. And now we sit in semis, wondering why The world won't let us forget. The bargain Was simple: help us rob them, or you die. Don't talk to me of what we gave them—trains, The rule of law, the English tongue. What price Did they pay? Ask the bones beneath the plains, The starved Bengalis. Empire wasn't nice. It was four thousand Scotsmen with a ledger And backing from whoever'd sell their own. Perfidious? Too kind. We were the dredger, Scooping wealth from marrow, blood, and bone. They'll tell you it was glorious. Don't believe them. It was accountancy with bayonets. And tea.
