If . . .

If you can get on with the job when in The Sun,
They're taking every single thing and blaming it on you,
If you believe you're right when all men doubt you,
And when proved wrong, will not say 'sorry' too,
If you can know for your demise we're waiting,
And that we see through all your web of lies,
And that the country's given way to hating,
And thanks to you your Party is despised:


If you can speak - and never give an answer;
If you can never ever take the blame,
If you can send our Soldiers to disaster,
And then misspell a Fallen Hero's name,
If you can know the truth you've never spoken,
And yet still claim the rightness of your rule,
Or watch your Prudent reputation broken,
With Left and Right both thinking you're a fool,


If you can take a decade's worth of winnings,
And waste it all, and still not give a toss,
And blame the banks for your own fiscal sinnings,
And still refuse to say you've made the loss,
If you can show no heart, no nerve, no sinew,
And stay in place when we all want you gone,
And know that there's no moral compass in you,
But lust for power keeps you hanging on,


If you can show you've no redeeming virtue,
And demonstrate a lack of common touch,
When even grass-roots Party hacks desert you,
As tighter on to Mandelson you clutch,
If your incompetence can know no limits,
And alienate both Guardian and Sun,
You're Gordon Brown, the half-blind dith'ring dimwit,
And - which is more - we wish you would fuck off.