The bogs-blokes in the queue for mum, know exactly what beckons,
It's sloppy 3rds, 4ths, 5ths, 6ths, 10ths, 30ths, and so on (not just sloppy seconds).
Mum's crap hoop,
Is trapped in a never-ending bogs-fuckery doom-loop.
Like moths to a flame,
Blokes are drawn to the bogs when mum's on the game.
Mum: on the junk.
Dad: can't spunk.
Dad's studying his balls in the barely reflective metalic mirror in the gents.
Then sadly announces;
"What a dazzling display of scrotal disfigurements".
It was a particularly low point in dad's story of sexual depravity,
When he was caught wanking over baby Jesus in the church Christmas Nativity.
A few bogs-blokes experience buyers remorse,
When they catch sight of the state of mum's back doors.
There's some graffiti artists playing tag,
On your Dad's penis and ball-bag.
Bedsit dad listening to Smashing Pumpkins,
Because he's got a willy that's small and thins.
When it comes to the bum-plunder, your dad prefers auntie Mable,
On account of her massive tits, and that she's mentally unstable.
