The Truth About Love

For Luke and Clare (via WH Auden)

Some say that love is all you need,

   And some say it’s a drug,

Some say that love’s a dirty deed,

   And some say it’s a bug,

 But when I started looking for it,

   And coyly asked around,

Most people told me to ignore it,

   Or said, “It can’t found!”

Does it hide in the dark like a virus?

   Which mutates far too fast for a cure?

Is it written on ancient papyrus?

   Is it too much for us to endure?

Does it torture the souls of all madmen?

   Is it sent from below or above?

Is it sold by unscrupulous admen?

   Just what is the truth about love?

I’ve read about it many times,

   In florid prose and verse,

I’ve heard about its torrid crimes,

   I’ve heard that it’s a curse.

It seems to me, it’s everywhere,

   But largely undiscovered,

I’ve heard that when it brings despair,

   Your soul can’t be recovered.

Does it wear too much make up or blusher?

   Is its hair done by Vidal Sassoon?

Has it ever set foot inside Russia?

   Does it like to stare up at the moon?

Does it stand around nervously waiting?

   Does it need an encouraging shove?

Does it have an opinion on dating?

   Just what is the truth about love?

I searched beneath the kitchen sink,

   I peered above the loo,

I sat and had a good old think,

   But didn’t have a clue.

I glanced across towards the door,

   I peeped upon a shelf,

Then sat upon the bedroom floor,

   And looked inside myself.

Does it like to behave like a moron?

   Can it ever admit when it’s wrong?

Does it cry when it knows there’s a war on?

   Is its nose just a little too long?

Has its future been told by a gypsy,

   Who was wearing a singular glove?

When it drinks, does it drink to get tipsy?

   Just what is the truth about love?

Now, just before I turn and go,

   There’s something I should say,

This ‘love’ is something that I know;

   I’ve led you all astray.

I know that love’s no abstract word,

   Elusive, never found,

To say so would be quite absurd,

   For love is all around.

It’s the son who has slept on my shoulder,

   It’s the hug which I give to a friend,

It’s the, “Hey, look! We’re twenty years older!”

   It’s the walking with you to the end.

It’s the story we’ll never stop writing,

   It’s the sadness our time’s not enough,

And it’s you, ‘cos you’re bloody exciting,

   There you have it: the truth about love.