At last the secret is out,
as it always must come in the
end,
the delicious story is ripe
to tell
to tell to the intimate
friend;
over the tea-cups and into
the square
the tongue has its desire;
still waters run deep, my
dear,
there’s never smoke without
fire.
Behind the corpse in the
reservoir,
behind the ghost on the
links,
behind the lady who dances
and the man who madly drinks,
under the look of fatigue
the attack of migraine and
the sigh
there is always another
story,
there is more than meets the
eye.
For the clear voice suddenly
singing,
high up in the convent wall,
the scent of the elder
bushes,
the sporting prints in the
hall,
the croquet matches in
summer,
the handshake, the cough, the
kiss,
there is always a wicked
secret,
a private reason for this.