I wrote this many years ago:
Many think they know me.
Only a handful really do.
I've shared a lot with many;
opened up to very few.
You sometimes might hear
my whistle echo in the hall.
The rhythm floating wildly;
an insignia, my call.
Others think they have a
grasp on just who I might be.
They open the door, but to
their dismay, It's not me.
No further will I let you.
My friendship is for all.
Stab me in the back;
now the wound is raw
I am here today
and tomorrow too.
Many think they know
the knowledge of the few.
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