If you can hold your drink when all about you
are losing theirs and aiming it at you,
if you can drive your car when all men doubt you,
but make allowance for the coppers too;
or need to pee but not be tired by waiting,
or after peeing don’t forget your flies;
on politics or football start debating
and yet don’t look too good nor talk too wise.

If you can drink and not make drink your master;
if you can talk – and not make sense your aim;
if you can still stand up although you’re plastered
and shout at passing women dirty names;
if you can bear to hear the truth tomorrow
of how you acted like a total fool
and caused your girl to sob in shame and sorrow
when you picked up that tart from Liverpool

If you can take your children’s Christmas money
and risk it on one turn of pitch and toss
and lose, and laugh like it was funny
and never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force yourself just to continue
to drink another pint of foaming ale
and stay upright when there is nothing in you
except some peanuts and some crisps gone stale;

If you can talk too loud and turn the air blue
and try to sing but always out of tune;
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you
so drunk by now, to pain you are immune;
If you can face the unforgiving missus
then sixty seconds worth of distance run
Yours is this pub, and everything that’s in it
And - which is more - you’ll be a Man, my son.