“Who’s the Knight-Mayor?” I cried. Instead Of answering my question, “Well, if you don’t know _that_,” he said, “Either you never go to bed, Or you’ve a grand digestion! “He goes about and sits on folk That eat too much at night: His duties are to pinch, and poke, And squeeze them till they nearly choke.” (I said “It serves them right!”) “And folk who sup on things like these—” He muttered, “eggs and bacon— Lobster—and duck—and toasted cheese— If they don’t get an awful squeeze, I’m very much mistaken! “He is immensely fat, and so Well suits the occupation: In point of fact, if you must know, We used to call him years ago, _The Mayor and Corporation_! [Picture: He goes about and sits on folk] “The day he was elected Mayor I _know_ that every Sprite meant To vote for _me_, but did not dare— He was so frantic with despair And furious with excitement. [Picture: He ran to tell the King] “When it was over, for a whim, He ran to tell the King; And being the reverse of slim, A two-mile trot was not for him A very easy thing. “So, to reward him for his run (As it was baking hot, And he was over twenty stone), The King proceeded, half in fun, To knight him on the spot.” “’Twas a great liberty to take!” (I fired up like a rocket). “He did it just for punning’s sake: ‘The man,’ says Johnson, ‘that would make A pun, would pick a pocket!’” “A man,” said he, “is not a King.” I argued for a while, And did my best to prove the thing— The Phantom merely listening With a contemptuous smile. At last, when, breath and patience spent, I had recourse to smoking— “Your _aim_,” he said, “is excellent: But—when you call it _argument_— Of course you’re only joking?” [Picture: The phantom sitting on chair] Stung by his cold and snaky eye, I roused myself at length To say “At least I do defy The veriest sceptic to deny That union is strength!” “That’s true enough,” said he, “yet stay—” I listened in all meekness— “_Union_ is strength, I’m bound to say; In fact, the thing’s as clear as day; But _onions_ are a weakness.” CANTO VI Dyscomfyture AS one who strives a hill to climb, Who never climbed before: Who finds it, in a little time, Grow every moment less sublime, And votes the thing a bore: Yet, having once begun to try, Dares not desert his quest, But, climbing, ever keeps his eye On one small hut against the sky Wherein he hopes to rest: