Blokes are struggling to budge,
Mum's congealed arse-sludge.
Dad believes it's trendy,
To dress, behave and talk, all "sex-offendy."
All hopes collapse,
Of mum failing to prolapse.
Post-shift, mum's often shell-shocked,
If she's been particularly "well-cocked."
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.
Leave a three-star yelp review for my restaurant complaining it didn’t smell enough of piss
Mum’s glazed, a la a bowl of Frosties
Not with sugar, but rather the contents of blokes’ ‘prosties’
Mum offers entirely free access,
To her poo-axis.
Mum's in the bedroom covered in a jar of Uncle Ben's (ready to cook),
Dad's in the kitchen wanking over Ken Hom(o)'s new stirfry cock-wok book.
Mum's in the phonebox, shouting 'Doctor!' down the blower;
Bemoaning the state of her farm-hand induced vaginal 'Krakatoa'.
