“I’m Hun Bun!” smiled the little chap,
“The Cooky Potentate.”
“Go on and eat your supper, boy,
’Twill make you strong and fat,
And fit to hit a punching bag
Or swing a baseball bat!”
“Not hungry” sighed the little lad
And scowled upon his meat,
And frowned into his glass of milk,
“There’s nothing fit to eat.”