Ambulance crews thrown something of a curve-ball,
As they arrived on the scene of Dad's latest anal-maul,
Surgically, it certainly now seems like a marginal-call,
Whether or not they manage to excavate that ingested medicine-ball.
The bogs-blokes in the queue for mum, know exactly what beckons,
It's sloppy 3rds, 4ths, 5ths, 6ths, 10ths, 30ths, and so on (not just sloppy seconds).
Thick blokes are queueing round the block, and things are looking bleak,
For mum's poor old knackered shit-beak.
The closest I can come to flattery;
Your mum's clit on my tongue's like a nine volt battery.
Consult the bar chart:
It's statistically most likely to be a cum-froth fart.
Big gents-bloke going at it from a particularly tight angle,
Causing further destruction to mum's 'pubic triangle.'
everyone was disgusted to see your dad's face, spunk-encrusted.
his cock size self-descriptions not to be trusted.
(sheriff's badge: rusted.)
Mum's spent an evening with Dragon Den's Tej Lalvani;
And now has a bum area like last week's chili con carne.
Dad has an overwhelming sexual reliance,
On inanimate objects and domestic appliance.
Mum shakes out her twat like Town Criers bells,
A powerful calling to blokes, but fuck me, it smells.
