We don't want your smiling face. We've seen it. It does not
Impress. We don't want a picture of you with your co-conspirators
In front of lovely, craggy mountains. We'd prefer to view your hands,
To smell the blood which covers them as you, so bent on seeming
Civil, finance wars to crush the Russians and exterminate, not only
Arabs, every Muslim living. Heirs to an Enlightenment which died
One hundred years ago, done in by inconvenient facts: your God
Proved not the only god, your faith in endless upward progress,
Done in by the views of those you subjugated, some of whom
Made clear they knew much more than you, but you refused to
Cede your thrones. Your kind, so smug and white and Christian,
Finding itself on an even footing with the savages, resorted
To your one advantage. Hence the blood which you're unable
To wash from your hands.