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 tongues 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.