This is dedicated to those out-of-favour calendars which once adorned garage walls. Once they were everywhere, now they’re frowned upon, forgotten, sad.
She rolls in silvery sand, a Bounty ad
Droplets of saltwater, scantily clad
One a tropical beach, sun beating down
She brightens our days, so why do we frown?
A Bond girl among spark plugs and bald tyres
Vent for a hundred mechanics’ desires
Tea rings on her thigh, biroed football scores
Miss Feb ’84 on her chipboard door
We don’t look anymore, that seems rotten
Even the mechanics have forgotten
Is fantasy so wrong, dreaming naughty?
It’s sad she’s hid with the WD40