Nobody's wrong but England—and England's always wrong,
Too late—or else too early—too soft—or else too strong.
And when for once the wide world begins to praise her name
Her own sons crowd and hurry to shout her back to shame.

Remember how they begged her to carry arms to Spain?
But carry arms to Athens? Oh, no, she's wrong again!
We mustn't blame the Russians; the Yanks can do no wrong:
I do not think the Germans will be guilty very long.
Not Bismarck now but Baldwin is the architect of war;
Wilhelm-and Woodrow Wilson-are not mentioned any more.
But Britain, poor old Britain, is anybody's meat.
Give her the hardest marches, and then trip up her feet.
Stand bravely on the touch-line and analyse her acts.
Bombard her with your sermons-and never mind the facts.
Laugh loud at every failure, lay claim to each success,
And make a party profit out of the cosmic mess.
Nor ever cease to whistle your happy little song
'Nobody's wrong but England—and England's always wrong.'
December 10, 1944