If -

If you can note the chaps round whom to hover
And whom it is more circumspect to fear;
Whose arse to lick, whose face to trample over
In service of your brilliant career;
If you are sure who's serf and who is master
And that the useful one believes you're true;
If you can live through Triumph and Disaster,
Ensuring only one descends on you;

If you can draw aristocratic whinnies
That paralyse your chinless chums with mirth
By cracking jokes about some piccaninnies
Of lowly, Anglophobic Kenyan birth;
If you can make his place known to the native
And pen a Daily Toryguff epistle,
Fib folderol, tell ablative from dative
Or tell some beastly wogs to go and whistle;

If you can dream while others do the detail
And always sell yourself, no matter what,
Remembering that everything's for retail:
Your word, your friends, your honour, the job-lot;
If you can be all tactless and tendentious
And then complain that Nazis beat you up,
My son, you'll be a populist - contentious,
Ambitious, posh and silly, and a Pup.

Flipping Crudyard