It's a desperately close call,
As to whether dad's got anything between his legs at all.
There's excellent WiFi,
In and around mum's brown-eye.
Mum's one of the favourites to win this year's 'Sex-Factor,'
Dad in lowly bedsit room measuring his prick with compass and protractor.
On entry to the bogs, blokes are handed a strong laxative,
So when it's their turn with mum, they've "nothing left to give."
Bloke's size? Thick!
Mum to gents? Quick!
Can of 'brew', fag in mouth, raggy old string vest. None of these in themselves are a crime but your Dad is also a sex pest.
Mum will often refer to the bogs hive mind,
For innovation in being screwed in the behind.
Pass the sellotape,
My arsehole's agape.
Mum would be loathe to admit it,
But she is actually covered head to foot in dog-shit.
Watch mum completely dictate,
How and where blokes defecate.
