Dad behaves like a sycophantic lickspittle,
Around blokes with bigger willies (but willies that are still little).
Everyone's had a good look at dad's prick,
And unanimously agreed that it's not thick.
Some would view mum's new botty-muck film like her Triumph of the Will,
To others, it will simply be another few hours staring at her shit-strewn, open landfill.
After a heavy bogs shift, mum produces a kind of steak tartare,
From her busted fartare.
Mum's "vitals,"
Can no longer have definite titles.
Blokes fucking your mum aren't so much 'partners' as 'miners,'
Her massive open-cast cunt requires not johnnies but bin-liners.
Dad: gens sad, listless, despairing (ennui)
Mum: gens flattened against urinal trough by clamouring bogblokes (on wee)
Mum's planning to spend Valentine's
With many men taking her from behind
Your dad's in the bathroom, bleeding as he wanks,
High contrast with the porcelain: 'Armitage Shanks'.
Dad's rap name is "Smallie Smalls"
(his rap technique, much like his sexual technique, simply appalls)
