It is with perfect tone and diction,
That mum is able to declare "that is not a sufficient erection."
Your dad's got a prick
like an irradiated glow-stick.
Neon luminosity,
and really 'unthick'.
After the A-bomb dropped, they came crawling from the rubble: many men, plus your mum (with radioactive cunt-stubble).
The judge seemed impressed with dad's "imaginative array" of playground attendance excuses,
But conveyed a wish that he could find other ways to express his "creative juices."
As long as a bloke brings the requisite dog faeces,
He can absolutely knob mum's bum'ole to pieces.
Dad begins his daily quest,
To be in playgrounds, undressed.
When your dad announced that he'd pickled his prick, he certainly wasn't bluffing;
your mum's encrusted trout farm cunt smells just like onion stuffing.
Mum's in the horror-bogs ceaselessly knob-gobblin',
dad's wrestling with particle physics: the 'measurement problem'.
It really grieves us, that your father's got no penis.
the 34th Bogsmen regiment are 'honouring' Mum with their '21-gun salute'
A process which leaves her arsehole looking like mid-80s Beirut
