Facility

So easy 'tis to make a rhyme,      That did the world but know it,      Your coachman might Parnassus climb,      Your butler be a poet.      Then, oh, how charming it would be      If, when in haste hysteric      You called the page, you learned that he      Was grappling with a lyric.      Or else what rapture it would yield,      When cook sent up the salad,      To find within its depths concealed      A touching little ballad.      Or if for tea and toast you yearned,      What joy to find upon it      The chambermaid had coyly laid      A palpitating sonnet.      Your baker could the fashion set;      Your butcher might respond well;      With every tart a triolet,      With every chop a rondel.      Your tailor's bill . . . well, I'll be blowed!      Dear chap! I never knowed him . . .      He's gone and written me an ode,      Instead of what I owed him.      So easy 'tis to rhyme . . . yet stay!      Oh, terrible misgiving!      Please do not give the game away . . .      I've got to make my living.