Suburbanites Come A-Wooing

From the suburbs they come,
	All decked out in Dockers,
Or wearing Adidas
	Fresh from fancy gym lockers.

They come to impress her
	With their prowess at sports,
Or their poetic musings,
	Or their deep-felt retorts.

Some try to buy her —
	Appliances! Guns!
Or flowers delivered
	From fire-escape rungs!

Some loom in the background,
	In dark silence waiting,
For their chance at the Angel
	Of suburbanite dating.



Yes, she is their Heaven!
	To them, she’s so hot,
It’s a Delicious Dream
	Just to feel what she’s got!

But she spurns them all —
	Those boys from the ’burbs —
Leaves their libidos throbbing
	Out the door, on the curb.

As they drive home they mutter,
	“Aren’t I on the edge?
Aren’t I cool enough 
	For a night in her bed?”

And they come back a-wooing,
	Grandiosity planned,
Never thinking a moment
	That they misunderstand.



No, their coolness just bores her.
        She thinks trite their despairs.
She’s had too much of those
	In her turmoiled years.

She just wants a home
	With a white picket fence,
And a guy with more humor
	Than commoner sense.

A guy who’ll raise children,
	And tomatoes in spring,
Who’ll make up kid’s stories
	And songs they can sing.

And he’ll live together
	With the Angel Above,
Happily ever after
	As soulmates in love.