Dimensional portal-tear piss.
Mum's published a rather fascistic charter,
Detailing the specifics of how blokes should screw her up the farter.
Mum has desperately low standards,
As to who has access to her innards.
It's Christmas eve eve eve,
And mums been drilled by Steve, Steve, and Steve.
Your favourite pudding (tapioca from the fridge) turned out to be your father's week old cock-porridge.
Dad's fashioned himself as some kind of bogs conscientious objector,
But the simple fact of the matter is, his willy is a non-erector.
There's your mum's 'second face',
loads of weird dicks (buried without trace).
Occasionally, mum reasserts the bogs ground rules:
There needs to be pricks that are thicks, piss, and, of course, stools.
Top of dad's wish list ,
Covered in piss and shit.
Bogs-blokes are genuinely mindful,
Of ensuring mum gets a proper behind-full.
I'm always inclined to break into a jog,
When I'm heading to where your mum's 'working the bog.'
