He is the press and the people, the sultan who rules the Turks; he is
the bell in the steeple, and he is the whole blamed works. He is the
hill and valley, the dawning, the dusk, the moon; he is the large white
alley, he is the man in the moon. He is the soothing slumber, he is
the soul awake, he is the big cucumber, that gives us the bellyache.
He is the fire that quickens, the company that insures; he is the ill
that sickens, and he is the thing that cures. He is the ruling
Russian, and we are the groveling skates; he is the constitution, and
he's the United States.