Propagandhi

Here in the land that Abraham was promised to receive
we listen to you catechize from your pulpit overseas.
You mourn the proofs of our barbarity.
Dry your eyes, oh Pharisee.
We both speak a settler's cant.
We both read from the same old played out scripts and
hum familiar tunes, broadcast on fixed frequencies,
stuck in locking grooves. We both profess noble intent
as we civilize human impediments.
So if your hands are clean then noblesse oblige that
you wipe that â??who me?â?
 look off of your face and concede our designs separated
by nothing more than place and time.
Different scenes, same crimes.
Pray, let him who's without sin cast the first statues
of the former rogues turned folk heroes that your forefathers
hung. Don't lecture me about plundered soil while you
loaf upon your father's spoils.
We want nothing more than what you already have: a
comforting set of exculpatory â?
?facts� like, say, the myth of an empty land and
a conquest so complete we can pull these tanks from
our streets and hand the loose ends over to bureaucrats
and become just like you â?
? lounging carefree in your cafes,
absolved from sin and human grenades.
Entre nous, how did your desert bloom?