If you can keep your head when all about you

Are lousy players, and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when Roman doubts you,

And make no allowance for his doubting too,

If you can defend and not get tired of defending,

Or being lied about, don’t park the bus,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

Except perhaps the FA, but make not too much fuss:

 

If you’re fined – and the touchline bans you master;

If you can think – and make excuses your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

For another huge pay-off just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted again by journalists, the fools,

Or throw your toys out of the pram, left broken

And claim you’re forced to work with worn-out tools:

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And proclaim yourself the special one,

Then lose, and start again at your beginnings

And with a feeling that you’ve been hard done;

If you can force your doctor out of the club

To serve your ego long after she is gone,

And so the players left without a magic rub

They turned on you and said: ‘you’re wrong!’

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with oligarchs – and lose the common touch,

If neither refs nor loving fans can hurt you,

If all players count with you, but none that much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With wasted time until it’s done,

To seek a corner and then win it,

And – which is sore – you’ll get the sack, Jose son!