During summer, dad likes to visit famous British landmarks and places,
And spoil them for everyone else by publically passing urine and feces.
Prompting numerous broadsheet think-pieces on the theme 'is it art?':
Mum's Jackson Pollockesque paintings done with the post-bogs contents of her twat
When Mum says a bloke is ‘well proportioned’, what she means
Is ‘his knob is roughly the proportions of two stacked cans of Heinz Baked Beans’
Mum's new bogs night is called 'Hott Mess,'
Specifically for blokes suffering from IBS.
Dad's prick: so incredibly thin
It didn't touch the sides when he tríes to fuck a molecule of benzene
Mum really loves it when blokes gets theirs fists on;
Her shockingly slack, stinking, fucked 'poo-piston'.
At the orgy of TV detectives,
Your eyesight was not defective,
The well-mannered and deferent Albert Campion,
Declared your Dad the bum-fisting champion.
One would have thought by now, mum must have exhausted the catalogue,
Of depraved sexual acts one can perform in the bog.
Mum despises small talk or social mingling,
She just wants a proper "tube of Pringling."
Mum's been accused of practicing voodoo,
Due too,
How blokes are so bewitched by the place from which she poo-poo.
