Angry and defrauded

Pondering anew on the vexed question of whom to reparate for loss of slave trade income, and how *much* per person (what is the going rate for a slave these days?), I revisited the writings of that splendid pied piper of British imperialism, Joseph Rudyard Kipling.

In particular, the great man's poems where I came across his wry and uncomfortably topical Dead Statesman.

I could not dig; I dared not rob;
Therefore I lied to please the mob.
Now all my lies are proved untrue
And I must face the men I slew.
What tale shall serve me here among
Mine angry and defrauded young?