In East Midlands parlance, mum's now 'reet mardi';
Very few of the bog-blokes can be described as 'farmyard'(y).
I've talked to the men at the top,
they insist your mother be smothered in slops,
There's some movement on this: bile, shit, or half-brewed horror-hops.
While bigblokes ritually lubricate mum's poo-glacier,
Dad's penis-existence lifesigns could not be tracier.
Catastrophic bum injuries that might normally give rise to feelings of grief,
Instead seem to almost bring mum a sense of relief.
Mum's been getting bummed hard of late,
And she's having a bogs bumsex party to celebrate.
Mum's amongst the most sought after bogs-tarts,
In the bogs, at the World Championship Darts.
Mum's dildo on the speaker cone...
Turn up the bass to drive it home.
Dad's failed to find a publisher,
For his paper entitled "why child sex is great and grown-up sex is much more rubbisher".
Mum's just hoping for a dogshit-filled stocking,
And 80 or 90 Santas to deliver a good hard cocking.
Dad: stuck in his 'man cave'
(with foreign objects stuck in his 'man cave');
