Hardly anything there at all.
The basic premise is still the same;
your bum, my leg, and loads of pain.
Dad's deep-dive faux-charity uncalled for spurious society analysis
focuses souly on kid's bums, tits, willies, poos, testes, arseholes and piss.
Mum's a mighty old bogs-warrior,
Dad's a weird little willy worrier.
Stand next to the one person using a urinal in a 10-urinal bog and emit a high pressure jet of mahogany coloured, pungent piss while staring at your neighbour
Mum's New Year plans,
Predictably involve farm-hands.
Smart bogs-blokes hold in mind the saying 'the early bird catches the worm,'
And try to get in the bogs before mum has ingested unfathomable quantities of sprerm.
Scientists have yet to invent a lens
Powerful enough to detect Dad’s nano-gens
In the bogs, mum cuts a frustrated figure,
As blokes have queued in reverse, not smaller to bigger.
Bogs-blokes in an impatient huddle,
Around mum's 'bronze medal.'
Oh wow, tonight for mum's bum, it really is 'Cliffs of Dover,'
Last night's all-night enormo-farmhand bogs-party has gone and carried over!
