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At last the secret is out, |
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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.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,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.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, |
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The kiss, the kiss, a kiss |
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There is always a wicked secret, |
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A private reason for this. |
