Query any poem you want.

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.