>>10626673Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak app Tinder;
And each separate horrid swipe merely produced more post-wall whores .
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—each roastie sounded vague and hollow
From my swipes increasing sorrow—sorrow for the post-wall whores—
For the old and haggard roastie whom the public calls a whore—
Childless here for evermore.
And the used up, sad, and certain
blow outs of each roast’s beef curtain
Chilled me—filled me with disgusted terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating
of my heart, I stood repeating
“Tis some roastie looking to avoid being called a whore—some late roastie begging me to settle for—
That is it and nothing more.”
Presently disgust grew stronger: swiping to the right no longer,
“Yikes,” said I, “No Madam, you’re post-wall! I won’t ignore!
But the fact is I was swiping, and so quickly you came griping,
And so loudly you came griping, griping for your life: a whore,
That I scarce was sure I swiped you” —here I swiped left on the whore;—
New roasties there and nothing more.
Deep into my tinder peering, long I stood there swiping, fearing,
Doubting that kids can be had by women who are 44;
But the swiping was unbroken, and the roasties gave no token,
And the only number spoken was a whisper: “44?”
This I whispered and a roastie’s age was 44!—
Merely this and nothing more
