Dad's willy doppelganger,
Is the end of a wire coat hanger.
Once again, dad's on sex-pest parole,
In his bedsit flat, listening to Snow Patrol.
"Whenever you find you are on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect."
Your dad's never had that problem, with his small prick that fails to erect.
There's no need to be linguistically austere,
Your dad is a stereotypical 'bubbly-queer.'
There is a mention in a biblical epistle of your Mum's pungent, misformed twat gristle.
In post coital bliss i'm soundly sleeping,
It was easy to drift off to your dad's gentle weeping.
I made out the complaints about the massive dick,
In amongst the wrenching barfs of you being sick.
Dad cruelly feels a faint flicker of a hard-on,
As nurse roughly adjusts his anal tampon.
One blink and you missed 'em,
It's mum's arsehole, twat and perineum.
Mum's always been more of a 'taker' rather than a 'giver,'
Hence her arsehole resembling a bucket of chopped liver.
