What's dad given up for Lent?
Certainly not spunking. He's impotent.
Bogs-blokes all up in mum's "section,"
Bystander dad, struggling with erection.
Time, tide and your Mum's libido know no bounds.
Where is she? Off doing her rounds.
(Earning sex pounds)
Father in the bedroom, sounds emitted: shrill,
You've been elected to pay the communal-shit-thrills bill.
Penis size: Nil.
Uh-oh,
Dad's selling brown Play-Doh.
It's amazing, how blokes are prepared to take their chances,
When mum has such atrocious twat and arse flatulences.
Interactions in the bogs rarely involve words,
Mainly grunts, moans and the exchange of dog-turds.
You're just going to have to learn to co-exist,
with this Sainsbury's carrier bag full of piss.
Dad's looking for a situation like Gisele Pelicot,
Except with a child aged five or below.
After a heavy bogs shift, mum produces a kind of steak tartare,
From her busted fartare.
