by Anne DiGeorge
I wrote a poem not long ago
About all those who profess to know,
The ins and outs of famous bouts
And private secrets from your own house.
Their meeting place is the back fence
Their tales they repeat from that day hence,
In frigid weather or smoldering heat
They keep the vigil by phone and feet
They're always there when not wanted around
They sneak up on us, not making a sound,
They'll argue and tell you "You are wrong!"
But don't correct them; that's a whole new song.
They are known by different names
And all the world knows their fame,
So beware to whom you speak or see
And guard your secrets with lock and key.
Published in "A Book of Poems" in 1968 by Anne DiGeorge
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