Hardly anything there at all.
From far and wide blokes are flocking
To give mum's bum a brutal docking.
Undercard: delivering to dad's woeful gens a thorough mocking.
You're just going to have to learn to co-exist,
with this Sainsbury's carrier bag full of piss.
Do a poo in the 17th century out of your bum in the present day, archaeologically excavate it and then flush it down the toilet.
In their hot little hands an 'alien stool',
roswell team unaware: dad's lost his 'fuck-gruel'.
Mum learnt the art of proper spit-roasties,
In early morning shifts with the help of the posties.
Dad's promoting a series of outlandish snake oil tinctures,
Claiming to make household objects resemble kid's sphynctas.
Inevitably, the Annual Bogs Pumpkin Carving,
Wound up with mum getting a halvin'
Mum sometimes likes to work al fresco,
And sees blokes behind the wheelie bins at Tesco.
Dad gets in from a hard day of various sex-offens,
He relaxes by putting his nob in the blender (setting: nut-blends).
