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.

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