Mum'll be OK in the recession, in the bogs she's her own boss,
Dad's in trouble - he's just been fired from his job as fluffer for BBC presenter Jonathan Ross.
What separates your mother from the other common-or-garden bogs-sluts,
Is that she probably has at least quadruple the amount of bloke's spunk in her guts.
Your mum's tits have gone so far south, they've circumnavigated the globe back into her mouth.
Mum has to request extra luggage,
When flying with her butt pluggage.
dad's birthday: he's overjoyed!
he's going to have his arse destroyed!
People often think mum's wearing fake tan,
But actually it's smeared poo from bogs-man.
Your dad's in the bathroom, bleeding as he wanks,
High contrast with the porcelain: 'Armitage Shanks'.
The area from which mum goes "pooey,"
Looks and smells like a gone off old carton of chop suey.
You don't have to be Sigmund Freud,
To see it's dad's little pecker that makes him annoyed.
Mum's been screwed by many enormously hung men,
Dad? Willy size: grain of Uncle Ben's.
