Secrets always leak out.   It’s one of those undiscovered laws     of soap operas and physics.       Sit on the truth all you want,         dig a hole, bury it in the backyard.          Burn it, shove it in the trunk,            push the car off one of those seaside cliffs,             kill every person who could know and               the thing will  pop up tomorrow with the                 chutzpah of an old enemy, shouting in an                  Armageddon voice to come witness                    what you’ve done.

Perverse towards shutup is the stuff of secrets themselves.   Sure, truth gets the awards and medals (usually posthumous),    but secrets get the press. You can never buy up every single copy      before the wrong eyes fall on words, you prayed, would never see print.

‘Don’t do it’ would seem    the appropriate aphorism,      but needs must, given the high        ratings allure of the Class A secret.       Cameras proliferate, guaranteeing          the public leak.

Prior centuries with the most secrets   seemed least likely to blab    But always everywhere      there was someone who knew        and would sell you down the river          for a song.

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