Postcards from the Colonies

Take a picture of imperial destruction
Attach it to a postcard and write my name
I'll receive it after you return
With a postmark from the colonies

My great grandfather was the bullet
Fired from a musket
That kept your great grandfather in line
My grandfather was the hangman
Who rung out your grandads neck
In the name of an empire inherited
From which he gets no respect

It's yours if you can guard it
It's yours if you can harvest
The produce of the farm with
A smile for we take it

My father is the manager
Who delegates your duties
This is the shape of progress
Reparations in the form of daily quotas
As close to an apology
As this empire is willing to give

It's yours if we can't find it
It's yours before our flag hits
The ground you can't deny its
Ours; divine connection

Same accent as the hangman
Same questions as the thief
Same skin tone as the master
Too ashamed to speak