When your stomach empties out
like you’re on your fourteenth stout
it must be love.
If you find that you can’t speak
without that itty bitty squeak
it must be love.

When you see you’re losing steam
and you’re slow like in a dream
it must be love.
If you’re speaking all in rhymes
but they’re mostly off in time
it must be love.

If your dancing steps are bad,
that’s pretty normal for you, lad;
still you’re in love.

When you stop killing your bugs
and begin to give them hugs
that might be love.
If you listen to her fart
and declare that it’s fine art
that’s probably love.

And if you uncover a mess
until she pours into a dress
you maybe found love.
But when you come to the conclusion
that her beauty’s no illusion
it’s surely love.

Now if you start coughing up blood
and then it starts to flood.
That’s probably not love.

Better consult a doctor.