A MODERN ROMANCE

                                                   Paul Engle

Come live with me and be my wife

And we will lead a packaged life,

‘Where food, drink, fun, all things save pain

Come neatly wrapped in cellophane.

I am the All-American boy,

Certified as fit for joy,

Elected (best of all the breed)

Hairline most likely to recede.

My parchment scroll to verify

Is stamped in gold and witnessed by

Secretary-Treasurer of

Americans Hundred Per Cent For Love.

You are the All-American girl,

Red toe to artificial curl,

Who passed all tests from skipping rope

And using only Cuddly Soap

To making fire in any weather

By rubbing boy and girl together.

We are the nation’s nicest team,

Madison Avenue’s magic scheme

To show how boy gets girl: my style

Succeeds by using Denta-Smile.

How merchandised that ceremony!

The minister was scrubbed and bony,

And all was sterile in that room

Except, one hoped, the eager groom.

Married, with advertising’s blessing,

We can begin togethernessing.

Before I carry you, my bride,

Across the threshold and inside,

I’ll take, to help my milk-fed bones,

Vitamins, minerals and hormones.

Now look how quickly I have fixed

A dry martini (ready-mixed).

So drink to our day, consecrated,

In chairs of leather, simulated.

While you are changing out of those

Nylon, dacron, rayon clothes,

I cook the dinner, without fail

Proving a real American male,

Humble, without too much endurance,

But lots of paid-up life insurance.

From the deep-freeze, to please your wish,

A TV dinner in its dish,

All ready-seasoned, heat it up.

Pour instant water in this cup

On instant coffee from a can.

Be proud, love, of your instant man.

Innocent food, mechanized manna

(Except the delicate banana),

Can you endure—forgive the question—

The messy horrors of digestion?

Even our love is pasteurized,

Our gentle hope homogenized.

And now our pure, hygienic night.

To our voluptuous delight

Your hair is up, restraints are down,

And cream is patted on your frown.

The brand-name mattress on the bed

Is wrapped in paper like fresh bread.

We can, to make our own campfire,

Turn the electric blanket higher.

We will cry, Darling, I do care,

In chastely air-conditioned air.

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