Be the prison sex-raffle prize.
As a poofter, dad's really into his flower arranging,
He's done some designs for local leisure centres (mainly so he could watch other men changing).
Animal, vaginable or mineral;
Dad's penis twitch: minimal.
Mum's in the bogs, absolutely "flying",
At the centre for assisted dying.
Mum's got a nuclear-test cunt
(unholy terminal glow),
Dad's got radiation sickness
(his fuck stump still won't grow).
In her distinguished career, mum has gone a long way to debunk,
The myth that there is a limit to ingesting spunk.
Your father's caught up in a scene chiefly obsessed with weird penis idolatry,
He stares for hours at the cripple-nub horror-shlong of 'The Who' front-man, Roger Daltry.
Valentines dad, staring forlorn,
Between his legs, an old dusty acorn.
When mum's bum has been knobbed sufficiently loose,
There's a stench reminiscent of butcher's bin-juice.
It's a widely known fact,
That dad's not only nano-cocked, but also pico-sacked.
One bogs-bloke poet has written a homage,
To mum's twat and arsehole plumage.
