We do but merely ask, no more, no less,
This much: that you white man, boasting
Of many parts, Some talk of Alexander,
Some of Hercules. Some broken not long ago
By little yellow soldiers out of the Rising Sun…
We ask you see the bitter, curving tide of history,
See well enough, relinquish, restore this place,
This sun to us… and the waiting generations.
Depart white man.
Your minions riot among our young in Penang Road
Their officers, un-Britannic, full of service, look angry
And short of breath. You whored on milk and honey,
Tried our spirit, spent our muscle, extracted from our
Earth; gave yourselves superior ways at our expense,
In our midst.
You knew when to come; surely know when to go.
Do not ignore, dismiss, pretending we are foolish;
Harbour contempt in eloquence. We know your
My father felt his master’s voice, obeyed,
But hid his grievous, wounded self.
I have learnt:
There is an Asian tide
That sings such power
Into my dreaming side:
My father’s anger turns my cause.
Depart Tom, Dick and Harry.
Gently, with ceremony;
We may still be friends,
Even love you… from a distance.