No sooner than mum's new social media coordinator comes into post,
Than up appear tweets advertising "the arsehole that's like fucking a bucket of rotting compost."
By end of shift, mum's arsehole emits a sort of frothy brown latte,
That smells like gone off duck pâté.
Bogs-blokes loved ones looking for last-minute gifts,
Could do a lot worse than tickets for mum's famous All-night Xmas Shifts.
Mum never feels sexually complete,
Until she has an extremely sore seat.
Unusually pungent stench emitting from your mother's shit-slot,
A rummage around reveals what's what...
A week old salami some bloke had left up there to rot!!
If you think about it,
it's only right that we grout it.
Mum's relationship with bog-blokes is symbiotic,
They get holes, she gets prick (thick).
Oh come on now gentlemen, let's not split hairs,
We'll panel your mum's shitter in, until it completely tears.
In the bogs, mum has no quarrels,
On giving up her basic morals.
Bogs-blokes know that mum isn't seeking any kind of romance or glamour,
She just needs blokes to hold the fuck-pace of an industrial jackhammer.
