Spies Poem by Richard Jarboe

Spies

Rating: 5.0


Where we go is where they go,
We trade secrets of what we know,
Because where we spy they spy,
So we trade secrets and then we lie.

Dealer, who do you talk to?
Squealer, who do you talk to?
Can you tell me what they do in their disguise?
In their disguise, what do they do?

I'm a black-bag man,
Black-baggin' is my trade,
My reputation precedes me,
They all say I'm tailor made.

What's classified is deified-
What's deified is classified,
So we trade them secrets,
And then we hide.

Where we spy, they spy,
We trade secrets then we lie,
Spies need to know whatever we know,
So we trade secrets while on the go.

'Locksmith' is what they call me,
There is no door I can't crack,
I'm a master of intrigue; you dig?
Leaving no trace after the fact.

Dealer, who do you talk to?
Squealer, who do you talk to?
Can you tell me what they do in their disguise?
In their disguise, what do they do;
I mean really?

Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: people
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Wes Vogler 13 April 2017

Whoa, Richard... this reads very well... entertainment which is not too derned plentiful at PH... I shall read on almost a villanelle poem

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