Oh Tinder Angel, rescue me
from men with diets gluten-free,
who never drink in restaurants,
gulp garlic pills, look deathly gaunt
and suffer lactose allergies.
They sniff most disapprovingly
when I knock back the fifth Chablis
and tuck into a cheese croissant.
Oh rescue me.
Just as I think I need to pee,
they clasp a hand upon my knee,
then move in close, all nonchalant,
to drone of apples in Vermont
and saving all the bumble bees.
Oh rescue me.