Mum’s perplexed by the appearance in the bogs of a fella
With a prick the length, but also the shape, of a vuvuzela
Trading standards don't take long to spot that Dad's ice-cream van is 'not fine';
As confused kids emerge with Liquid shit dribbler cone with a poo-'99'.
Dad looks down between his legs, forlorn,
At his knackered, tiny, dusty acorn.
Mum’s inability, when propositioned by blokes, to say ‘no’
Has left her bum’ole looking like post-siege Sarajevo
Mum's lifelong work as a bogs-slut may unconsciously be an enactment of penis envy,
Dad just literally has penis envy.
Write me loquacious, tender love letters that absolutely stink of really old, brown piss
Mum's default bogs position is bent over,
Coated head to foot in something recently produced by Rover.
There is a solemn tone to the muttering,
Of the bum-docs looking over mum's poo-guttering.
Mum's so smashed from bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape,
Blokes are becoming inebriated from a sniff of her crap.
I've developed a reading of the Koran,
That involves having to repeatedly fuck your old gran.
