Father in the paddock (padlock panick);
Can't stick it in the stallion's throat (vet's advice: it's inorganic).
Quick! Mum's pulling a train in Greggs!
Dad? Studying particle physics to try to locate his scrote-eggs (and third leg).
Send my aunt a telegram describing in exquisite detail the diseases ravaging my scrotum and perineum
Come end of shift, what's on all bogs-blokes' lips,
Is the flavour combination of mum's bowel drips.
Blokes: Happy New Year,
Mum: Happy Old Rear.
Bogs-punters are often left thinking "what's the catch,"
Well, it's mum's STD-riddled arsehole and snatch.
Mum's doing a residency at the malmaison,
Until her bumhole's completely "gone".
Bogs-blokes are stimulated by the cadence,
In how mum turns
and shouts "up the poo entrance!"
Much like the Dutch national football team in 1984, your dad's got a Ruud Gullet and, despite containing 11 blokes, fails to score.
Ball control: poor
Bogs-vets are a notoriously active lobbying group,
Pressurising government to formally investigate lost blokes in mum's crap-hoop.
