Mum’s entertaining ‘gentlemen of limited intelligence’
In the gents.
Your mum: 'Bigguns';
Your dad: Biggins.
Publish a 1000 page, densely printed leather-bound tome called ‘How to wipe your bottom, for people who don’t know how to wipe their own bottom’ and then go around leaving a copy in a drawer, Gideon bible style, in every place I visit.
Your mum has a certain air of defiance,
Around how (sexually, with big blokes) she's defied medical science.
In post coital bliss i'm soundly sleeping,
It was easy to drift off to your dad's gentle weeping.
Mum’s got but one resolution every year
And that’s to outdo her rival ‘no-knickers Nora’ for ‘number serviced via the rear’
Dad's discovered, to his chagrin,
That not even anorexic women,
Appreciate a man's penis being thin.
It's another long shift in the gents for mum and she shows no signs of being tired,
Dad's had no action since he fucked Phil Collins circa 'No Jacket Required.'
Mum's requested an extension to the Bristol Stool Charts
Type 0: 'Highly compacted by blokes' and Type 8: 'basically just farts'
