In a dark corner of the men's, it's hard to know where your shit starts or my jizz ends.
Mum offers a friendly reminder,
For blokes to line up in an orderly fashion behind her.
Mum's cajolin'
For a "salad-bowlin.'"
There's a whole host of things wrong, with your father's little putty-prong
(#1: not long).
Dad wearing a tiny leather posing pouch that's decidedly out of fashion,
Last seen in the pages of 1969 catalogue (Gratton).
Mum's going for the twelve bloke bum juggle,
While dad finds merely locating his gens a struggle.
Bedroom - nightly, an esteem-battering scene.
Full intercourse a no-no, so resort to the ream.
(You bat for both teams).
Dad's personal tragedy,
Is the uselessness and thinness of his willy.
Dad's got imaginary friends,
Who he sex-offends.
Dad has some questionable beliefs,
Regarding his right to access children's underneaths.
