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Poem	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.
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