By Joe Painter
She was stockinged in a most unusual way,
legs protruding from an egg
as white as sea foam
with two craters – black holes, really –
where they’d thrust out the shell
and dangled, glinting nylon.
She’d hatched in heels, three inches,
lipstick red, which
fulfilled the promise of her legs.
Her head popped madly from a third shell-hole
like a worm from a bitten apple;
she looked a knockout ‘til the wind had got hold of her perm.
The rest was smooth
as owt – you could have boiled it right there
and served for breakfast.
Always laid with love! declared the box,
as if women like this
came in six-packs, by the dozen.
Oh, how I would have liked
to pry off her crown
and let soldiers taste her yolk.
Joe Painter is a secondary school teacher from Reading, UK. He works in Wimbledon; hopes his tennis would improve by osmosis on moving to the area have so far proved unfounded.