Tuesday, 6 June 2017

Because Poetry should adapt, with apologies to Kipling...

If you can run good games when all about you
Are dropping out and abandoning theirs
If you can trust your vision when all else doubt you
But understand why they don’t share it
If you can watch the door and not be tired by watching
Or have promises broken, while keeping your own
Or deal with jealousy, from those who did nothing
And yet still invite them back time and again

If you can dream, but not forget that dreams are just that without work
If you can think, and know that more than thought is needed
If you can see both Triumph and Disaster
And know that only your volunteers make the difference
If you can bear to hear the advice of others
Who’ve never stood where you are, but think to comment anyway
Or watch the things you give your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em again with worn-out feet:

If you can make one heap of programmes
And hope that everyone takes one, so you don’t have to take them home,
And finish each day, and start again the next
And never breathe a word about the sleep you never got;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your attendees before and after they are gone,
And hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the drive that says to you: 'Next Year…'

If you can talk with Traders and keep your patience,
Or walk with Directors - one step back and to the right,
if neither Umpires nor Cosplayers can faze you,
If all Volunteers count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of crowd control,
Yours is the Convention and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be an organiser, of gamers…