My secret is no quiet thing, in fact he’s very loud
he always makes his voice heard, he will always find a crowd
he begs and pleads for someone who will lend him just an ear
he never will be left alone; he always sits right here

In the middle of my forehead, an inch or two behind
the pink and fleshy curtain which traps him in my mind
in the middle of my skull, hiding right between my eyes
living next-door to awareness; it is here my secret lies

My secret lies and tells untruths, his tongue cannot be trusted
he knows for whom I’ve cried, and he knows for whom I’ve lusted
he knows the miles to Babylon, he knows the nights I’ve slept
dying of desire. He knows from who he must be kept

When I’m with you he clears his throat and makes as if to speak
I throw my arms around his neck and choke him til he’s weak
he sputters and he wheezes, but he seems to crack a smile
for he knows that someday soon, or maybe someday in a while

My arms will grow too tired and my secret will ring out
and you shall know his name once I fail to win the bout
and you will rue the day you and him became acquainted
for his presence will leave all our words permanently tainted

By what every poet knows, and what every poet sings
by this four letter word, this most natural of things
so on the day he cries aloud I pray we’ll show no shame
I pray that he will find a friend
(I pray your secret is the same)