It's the evening shift, and in blokes troop,
To form line behind mum's poo-scoop.
Mum's been abducted and probed repeatedly by well endowed alien life forms
And has found the vast antimatter sex rods preferable to bogs-bloke-horns.
Mum's fucking a bloke - dick a big and good'un,
He's reamed her arse and now her little puddin.
Bogs-blokes all up in mum's "section,"
Bystander dad, struggling with erection.
In a bizarre tribute to drum and bass DJ and producer, doctor Scot;
your mum forced two Technics turntables and a Vestax mixer up her mott.
Regrettably, in the contract signed, dad's boss failed to stipulate,
that it's inappropriate to fist oneself, and continually masturbate.
Mum's arsehole's a busted flush,
After last night's "ace in the hole" bogs-rush.
On the nonce scale, dad's a rock solid 10,
But willy a 0, compared to all other men.
Your main-vein,
Is my main aim.
The bogs often sound like an episode of TVs "Kick Start,"
When mum unleashes a loud and aggressive fanny fart.
