Tell us about a thing you’ll never write about.
I promised myself, long ago
Though when, I really do not know
That I would not ever, never
No never, no ever, never
Write about it . . . never.
I’m not writing about it now
For I am not sure I know how
But, maybe, just maybe, I would
Yet, alas, I don’t think I should
If, even if, I could.
A promise is a promise you know
One you make somewhere far down below
If it comes out what will stop the rest
Whether it’s the ugliest or best
It is not worth the pest.
I’ll not write about it, no, no way
I will not write about it today
Nor the next, or the day after it
I will not, no not, write about it
It doesn’t deserve it.
I know you wish I’d change my mind
But the words would be hard to find
And even if I did, tell it
What would I then have left? Not it.
No, I wouldn’t have it.
It would then be yours and God knows whose
I might as well make it front page news.
So, no . . . certainly, mind-made-up not
I’ll not write about it. Never, not;
Not worth the who or what.
It’s my decision, my very own
And it will stay with me, me alone
It’s too slippery, too much a fuss
To keep it in; yes, I must, I must
Besides, who wants to start a ruckus?
So, no, no . . . for the umpteenth time no
I’ll not write about it: no and no
Though, if I could, I would let you in
It would be a laugher to the end
No . . . I’m sorry my friend.
So, no, my mind is made and that’s enough
I can always write about other stuff.
But it will stay forever just with me
And when I die; it, it shall go with me,
Then of it, I’ll be free.