You must bear it for twelve months
The dates in red and black,
And naughty images in color,
The exclusive domination,
The malicious prejudice,
The moral subversion,
The salivating profit,
All condescending in a flat moment
Of marauding women,
Cautious, coy, outrageous,
In camisole, heels, or transparent see-throughs,
Ineffectually suggesting de Sade bedroom beliefs.
You have to listen to the didactic sermon
Of some unspoken good life
Based on the Nicene Creed, Denis,
Venerable Bede or Pope Gregory XIII
That will lead you through bad days,
Frayed nerves and insomnia,
Into a fantasy world
Of geometric perfection,
Monthly surrogates,
Come-hither looks,
3-D love and
Tantalizing flesh games.
These glossy lunar ephemerides
Are exclusively meant for you
To help you keep up with
The rut of seasons,
The intercalary month of seduction,
The biblical six days of creation,
A day of rest, anno urbis conditae,
To keep you shipshape;
They provide you with calendar kittens,
To instigate your voyeuristic fiends,
To strengthen your scientia sexualis will
And abet your ars erotica.
