It's the never-ending, nightly duel,
Between bogs-blokes and mum's poo-capsule.
One blink and you missed 'em,
It's mum's arsehole, twat and perineum.
Dad looks down between his legs, forlorn,
At his knackered, tiny, dusty acorn.
After Mum’s had a long shift in the bogs, taking blokes to ‘bum heaven’
Her stools are inevitably a Bristol chart type 7
Mum starts to feel a kind of "cosmic oneness",
When her bumhole's knackered, and she's covered in dogs' mess.
Dad's scurrying away from the playground with nonce cops in hot pursuit,
It's simply not OK to be in public family areas dressed only in *that* style of swimsuit.
Regrettably, mum's had to enforce a "hosepipe ban,"
On the notorious bogs-bloke 'Golden Shower Man.'
Dad claims to be "conscientiously objecting,"
To *all* penis erecting.
Mum finds it genuinely life affirming,
To look down a queue of blokes, with their willies firming.
Mum's working the bogs at parties and bar mitzvahs,
Absolutely fucking smashed on white wine spritzers.
