Hardly anything there at all.
Father in the paddock (padlock panick);
Can't stick it in the stallion's throat (vet's advice: it's inorganic).
Dad's nonce-foibles,
Include interfering with little boys' bumholes, willies and balls.
Mum's worst fears have been allayed,
All blokes coming into the bogs *have* been delay-sprayed.
Blokes, alarmed mum might be going "off the boil",
Urgently airdrop in a load of dog-soil.
At the risk of seeming sentimental, or seeing things through rose-tinted glasses,
Your mum's bonked a lot of blokes from all races, backgrounds and classes.
Dad's advertising lessons in striptease,
For the under threes,
(and is shocked at the lack of registerees).
Mum's end of shift claim of victory over bogs-blokes is somewhat pyrrhic,
Given that the last bloke she entertained was physically *too* thick.
On the nonce scale, dad's a rock solid 10,
But willy a 0, compared to all other men.
No one wants to join dad "horizontal jogging",
So he's loudly sentencing his own prick to a public flogging.
(Mum? Bogging.)
Dad's re-reading Lolita,
But not as a work of literature.
