After a particularly heavy night in the bogs, there seems to be a worrying amount of 'give,'
In what (I can only now tentatively describe), as your mum's 'shit-sieve.'
Dad can only ever achieve the mildest hard on,
watching morning TV's 'Midnight Garden'.
As long as the size is ‘extra large’
Mum doesn’t charge
Mum's favourite poem, "Do Not Go Gently into that Good Night,"
And when you see the number of blokes in the queue, you think 'yes, quite.'
Bovine-wise, mum's in the category, 'Brown Swiss';
'The production and consumption of volumous arse-piss'.
Dad's gens,
Simply don't look like those of other men's.
Much to dad's disappointment and chagrin;
His mini-prick's rubbish and 'never go in'.
It was much more significant than a Freudian slip,
As the Psychiatrist's furnishings were blighted by dad's dribbly spunk-peppered horror-shit.
Whilst he was tearfully explaining about his small penis and 'how nothing would come out of it'.
Here's the good news!
I refuse to use lubes!
Following the Queen's passing, blokes will offer a 12 gun salute,
Before resuming the nightly assault on mum's poo-chute.
