Some say that love's a little boy
And some say he's a bird
Some say he makes the world go around
And some say that's absurd
But when I asked the man next door
Who looked as if he knew
His wife got very cross indeed
And said it wouldn't do

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicide
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides