Born in the land of black gold and spilled sunshine
in a nation of nations nationalised by the British,
prodded and pierced like our delta mangroves,
we, hand on heart, with woolly hair
and skin darker than autumn leaves
pledged allegiance to a Queen we never met
and served a Kingdom that never left.

Now we melt our tongue and our wears,
we restore our songs and our anthems,
revive our spirits and our spices
and weave into the seams
of what it seems to be British.