Secrets

All Brooders keep their secrets
The Brood does have its code
Although a loyal fraternity
Each walks a lonely road
If you began to question 
What they do and why
They’d change the subject, obfuscate
Even tell a lie
A gentle probe repeated
They wouldn’t give a hint
They’d shut up like a barnacle
Immune to any dint
An invitation out to eat
Make sure that they’re indulged
Whatever treats and fun they’ve had
A clue won’t be divulged
If you put on some sad black robes
And asked them to confess
The firmest “No” you’ll never doubt
Would be behind that “Yes”
Suppose you teased or tickled them
They’d shun the sharpest jibe
Try terrorizing torture
Use blackmail or a bribe
They’d just keep stum, spill not a bean
You know you will not win
Cajole and pry, insist and spy
They’ve locked those secrets in.

The Brooder, who’s a Podlet 
And not a Podkin yet
Is made to utter witchcraft oaths
On which his life is set
He’s sworn to inform no one
The rituals of the Brood
Or be despised and disemboweled
And thrown to fish for food
Don’t wonder ways are undisclosed
Or cryptic veiled arcane
The fear of being fishy food
Means Brooders are insane.