Oh please, for goodness sake.
Mum simply cannot endure,
Piss without a strong odour.
It's feeding time at the local zoo,
But Dad's been asked to leave, for throwing the animals his own poo.
Mum's dismayed,
If her "salad bowl" isn't perma-splayed.
When it comes to bum-jobs in the crapper,
Everyone knows mum's Chief Slapper.
Dad's promoting a series of outlandish snake oil tinctures,
Claiming to make household objects resemble kid's sphynctas.
Mum's prepared one of her famous 'Welsh rarebits'
(That's right, a load of coal miners' spunk applied liberally over her baretits)
Mum can no longer sit,
After a busy day entertaining staff and customers in the car park of Kwik Fit.
Dad's outfit for Broadmoor nonce-wing party for Eurovision,
Will almost certainly result in an extension to his time in prison.
Dad's cunning child ambush plan: foiled
Kids alerted by dad's pungent gens-stench (milk, spoiled)
For mum, nothing celebrates the Festival of Noel,
More than a proper stuffing in the bowel.
