Mr and Mrs Smith

Down the village lane, through a wooden door
in a stone house as grey as a rat
with a roof thatched with lichen-spotted straw
live a mysterious couple who chat

over their wicket gate to passers by,
sharing how they are and the time of day.
How could you ever guess they're being sly?
They let nothing escape in what they say

of what goes on when they are safe inside,
when, for comfort, they draw up their two chairs
for cosiness near to the fireside,
so they can leave behind their daily cares.

Now what the other villagers can't guess
is that this simple couple have a trade
in secret matters that they daren't profess.
For in a back room that they can't parade

is equipment for spying here and there;
computers with screens and large radios.
so they could listen to people elsewhere,
hidden away in their own studio.

They follow people in far away lands.
Strolling to the village shop to buy bread,
paying at the till with a loaf in his hands,
shopkeeper asks, 'Mr Smith, where's the wife?'

If he'd been unguarded he could have said:
'She's at home sorting international strife.'
Who'd have thought two Smiths dwelling in the sticks
Were an important arm of MI6?