An accurate echo of the wails of downhearted suburban frails is this rowdy little collection of light verse. ""Where is it written/ That husbands get a nap and the Super Bowl on Sundays while/ Wives get to help color in the coloring book."" So much for Kama Sutra, a few madrigals, great literature and philosophy, ""clever little cocktail parties"" and a shampoo and set every week. Enter Gerbers, the supermarket and Whip 'n Chill. In quavering stanzas the author mourns her lot--the perilous route of marriage 'twixt plumbing and the cleaners, the deariness of the marriage set; lost Paradises of youth. ""The suburbs are good for the children,/ But no place for grown ups to be."" And worst of all, one can't be hip over thirty, ""serving Crispy Critters to grouchy three-year-olds/ And drinking . . . Metrecal."" As is the case with cooking lamb hocks, reading these slick little verses requires contributive participation which the mop-weary suburban housewife will surely supply.