If you can keep your bread when all about you
men are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust your dough when all men doubt you
but make allowances for their mixing, too.
If you can bake but not be tired of baking,
or being fried a bit, don't deal in fries,
Or
being trolled at, don't give way to trolling,
and yet don't look too good nor talk too wise,
If you use cream, but not make cream your master,
if you can think and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with fishbones and fresh custard,
and treat those two false pastries just the same,
If you can bear to see the dough you've kneaded
twisted by cooks to make a trap for trolls,
Or watch the cakes you gave your life to smoking,
and dash and put them out with worn-out tools,
If you can make one heap of all your bakings
and risk it on one turn of pitch and toss,
and lose and start again with flour and water,
and never breathe a word about your loss,
If you can force your yeast and greaseproof paper
to serve your turn long after they are gone,
and to type more when there is nothing in you
but the will that says to them "bake on,"
If you can talk with trolls and keep your virtue,
or walk with Jutta, nor lose the common touch,
If neither UB nor loving Bliss can hurt you,
if all Bakers count with you but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
with 60 seconds worth of baking fun,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
and which is more, you'll eat of “pain”, my son.
NB “pain” is the French word for bread, pronounced “pan”