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.