Mum's got carpal tunnel
Of her saggy fish funnel.
Mum will often vaguely hear the dawn chorus,
As the last few dozen bogs-blokes file through her anus.
Mum's amongst the most sought after bogs-tarts,
In the bogs, at the World Championship Darts.
Hammer-cocked bogs-blokes release a unified Christmas sperms-jet;
dribbling from mum's bum onto shit-smeared campervan Thetford Cassette.
Proof that dad's not entirely lost his bum-looks,
He's just been fucked by ex-1980's Spurs striker-now-BBC-football-pundit-psuedo-serious-inferiority-complex-ridden-and-all-round-weirdo-twat, Garth Crooks!
Mum's in the phonebox, shouting 'Doctor!' down the blower;
Bemoaning the state of her farm-hand induced vaginal 'Krakatoa'.
Some like it hot
Mum like it in the bot-slot
There's dad in the bedroom, can't achieve it: wood;
Your mum: Hungerford.
Take flight!
Father's on the phone (bakerlite),
he's arranging with some blokes to be massively stabbed in the shite.
Mum's arsehole looking like the inside of a cement mixer
After full day in the bogs with blokes (thicser)
