To The Lord Mayor

(November 9th)         My dear Lord Mayor, -         In Fleet Street all is gay         From min' office window I catch glimpses         Of fluttering bunting and swinging festoons.         I don't know who pays for them         (The bunting and the festoons, that is to say),         But I am informed by the police that they         (The bunting and the festoons, that is to say)         Have been hung up in honour of YOU.         I am also given to understand that there has been a big rush         For free windows to view your procession,         Which, all being well (the Procession, that is to say)         Will take place this day, Saturday;         For my own part I am going into the country,         And I dare say that on the whole         You wish you were going with me;         But ambition has its penalties,         And if you will become Lord Mayor of London         (A dizzy pinnacle to which none but the biggest-souled of us         May aspire)         I suppose you must put up with the attendant inconveniences         And publicity.         So far as I have been able to judge         (And I arrive at this conclusion by dint of steadfast abstinence         From witnessing Lord Mayors' Shows)         A Lord Mayor's Show is a distinctly inspiriting spectacle.         It may be set down         As the Londoner's one annual opportunity         Of seeing a circus for nothing;         Hence no doubt its popularity.         Think not, however, my dear Lord Mayor,         That I deprecate your little pageant, gratis though it be.         This country, as everybody knows,         Has for centuries past been on the high road to ruin,         And, in my humble opinion, its decadence has been largely due         To a deep-rooted tendency on the part of the powerful         To curtail and do away with mayoral and other shows.         Feasts and fairs have been kicked out of England         By the aforesaid powerful:         If you would be a respectable community         You must have neither feast nor fair,         And, if you would be a respectable citizen of any given city,         You must not array yourself in motley.         A man who walked into his bank         In yellow trousers and a blue silk hat         Would never be allowed an overdraft,         Black and subdued greens and browns being the only wear         For persons who would get on in life.         All this is wrong, my dear Lord Mayor.         I am of opinion that millionaires         Ought to wear purple breeches;         I see no reason why I myself         Should not have a morning coat of red, white, and blue,         Or a waistcoat emblazoned with the arms         Of the Worshipful Company of Spectaclemakers.         In fact, my dear Lord Mayor,         To perpetrate a Mrs. Meynellism,         The colour of life is the salt of it,         Just as the Lord Mayor's Show is the salt of the Lord Mayoralty         And the one beautiful thing         About life as people expect you to live it         In the Metropolis.         Come hither, come hither, my dear Lord Mayor,         And do not tremble so!         We are all glad to see you going up Fleet Street,         We are all glad to see you going home the other way;         And we shall be equally glad to see your successor         Getting through the same flowerful day's work         Next year.         Goodbye, my dear Lord Mayor!         And         Hooray?