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