The secret

I’ve carried round this secret now for ages
And kept it very close against my chest.
It’s never been transcribed on diary pages,
Never been remarked upon in jest.

This secret has grown heavy on my shoulders,
It’s made me a neurotic nervous wreck.
It feels as though a bag of heavy boulders
Has been fastened most securely round my neck.

It’s mine and it will likely stay mine only,
I could not bear to publicise my guilt.
Carrying it around is very lonely
But beans, I always say, should not be spilt.

So do not ask me what it is I’m hiding,
For I have now become the secret’s slave.
There’s no way I will ever be confiding.
I’ll very likely take it to the grave.