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?