Mum's been fucked so hard it's affected her hearing,
Oblivious to the sound of the marching army of big-blokes nearing.
(Update on Dad: still queering).
Dad meditates endlessly,
On children's lingerie.
Mum's been fucking Ironman alter-ego Tony Starks,
Dad's still hanging around waiting for blokes in pub car-parks.
Mum is clinical,
In her total, all-round servicing of men's genital.
Maybe it's because his prick's a real tiddler,
That dad's a dangerous local kiddy-fiddler.
I'm covered in your diarrhea,
And soon to have your gonorrhea.
Life in the bogs is both a race to the bottom,
And also a race to mum's bottom.
No sooner than mum's new social media coordinator comes into post,
Than up appear tweets advertising "the arsehole that's like fucking a bucket of rotting compost."
Make me the subject of an abhorrent
Poo-torrent.
Mum's spent a life working in retail,
Selling blokes her fuck-tail.
