Pale

Her nasty tale,
A big secret no one knows,
Will someday make her blood rush down to her toes.
As predicted,
It does its rounds where it’s not supposed to go,
Binds itself there like a lump of fresh dough,
The inevitable has been done,
Tales of the tale have already been severally spun,
Her blood has rushed down to her toes,
On knowing that now everyone knows,
She’s left astounded and very pale,
At the thought that now everyone knows her nasty tale.