Secret Recipe Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

What I have learned,
From temptations yearned.
With it to make clear.
Is not to repeat,
Everything I hear.
Regardless of its deliciousness
Or the drooling of juice,
Licked from my lips.
I have learned this...
Without proof provided,
Or evidence to witness...
Never will I be made convinced,
What I've tasted is homemade.
And not from a box,
Second hand to be whipped up...
To quickly heat.
While I believe I'm served,
Something unique and special...
No one else will be given,
The opportunity to eat.
To then in my ear whisper,
Quietly as if being discreet...
'Do not under any circumstance,
Say or give away...
To you what I've given,
In utmost privacy.'

And of course,
Like a bandit jumping...
On the back of a horse.
I would portray Paul Revere.
Making it known,
I have good stuff...
Everyone just has to hear.
Caring less the truth of it.
Or what on the surface,
Has been stirred to confuse.
And there I was...
Representing the latest,
Of someone else's faked news.

Too many times,
I had found myself defending...
A lie someone to me has told.
Too many times,
Had I been the one accused...
Of whipping up a batch,
Of fantasized creations...
For the purpose to leave,
The doing to self amuse.

I have learn to listen.
With comprehension understood,
Not to repeat gossip I hear.
No matter how delicious,
The gossip is.
With its secret recipe,
Whispered in privacy...
Done to give attention.
And coming from someone...
Who thinks of me,
As the town crier.
Courier of juice.
Quick to pour the tea.