The Book of Love

I've never read the Book of Love.

I'm not sure that it exists.

It's like God or Santa Claus.

No one knows just what it is.

My friend thought he saw it

In Elvis's meaty paws.

But it was just a porno mag

And that made him very cross.

Another friend thought he saw it

Resting on Madonna's tub

But it disappeared from view

The moment she pulled the plug.

I've never read the Book of Love.

It must be quite well-worn.

Soaked, soiled, and dog-eared

And half the pages torn.

Maybe Shakespeare had it last.

Or maybe it was Donne.

Perhaps consumed in the Inferno's blast

Where John Keats retrieved it,

Dusted it off, and held it fast.

It must be quite a marvel.

It must be quite a find.

Beaten up and battered

And with a broken spine.

It must be out there somewhere.

You just have to know where to look.

It's not some cheap dime novel.

It's quite a special book.