the lyricist just shoves down "You, you, you" for the last line, and
then sets to work to fit the rest of the words to it. I have dwelled
on this, for it is noteworthy as the only bright spot in a lyricist's
life, the only real cinch the poor man has.

But take the word "love."

When the board of directors, or whoever it was, was arranging the
language, you would have thought that, if they had had a spark of pity
in their systems, they would have tacked on to that emotion of
thoughts of which the young man's fancy lightly turns in spring, some
word ending in an open vowel. They must have known that lyricists
would want to use whatever word they selected as a label for the
above-mentioned emotion far more frequently than any other word in the
language. It wasn't much to ask of them to choose a word capable of
numerous rhymes. But no, they went and made it "love," causing vast
misery to millions.

"Love" rhymes with "dove," "glove," "above," and "shove." It is true
that poets who print their stuff instead of having it sung take a mean
advantage by ringing in words like "prove" and "move"; but the
lyricist is not allowed to do that. This is the wretched unfairness of
the lyricist's lot. The language gets him both ways. It won't let him
rhyme "love" with "move," and it won't let him rhyme "maternal" with
"colonel." If he tries the first course, he is told that the rhyme,
though all right for the eye, is wrong for the ear. If he tries the
second course, they say that the rhyme, though more or less
ninety-nine percent pure for the ear, falls short when tested by the
eye. And, when he is driven back on one of the regular, guaranteed