As long as dad's pulse remains flickering,
He'll be contemplating designs for kid's sexy knickering.
Mum's infested twat splat-pasty: stiff like chilled linguini,
Father's rubbish nothing node: a failure 'in-betweeny'.
No time to ablute or to don the gimp suit
(your father can't wait to destroy his shit-chute).
You won't ever see mum "bottling,"
A 3 litre Coke "bottling."
Dad's prick situation is complicated:
Evidence suggests it's somehow evaporated.
Bum-caddy fuck daddy seeking anal pleasure (shitty cock);
Result?
Arse state - windsock.
Dad's playing a version of 'Who's Who,'
With collected images of other bloke's poo.
Dad's sent the crowd at the primary school gates scattering,
Dressed in a lingerie ensemble described as "not flattering."
Your dad's got a long list of things to do,
and central to this, is this carrier bag of poo.
Big gents-bloke going at it from a particularly tight angle,
Causing further destruction to mum's 'pubic triangle.'
