It's the 2009 Annual Festival of Piss,
Dad's gone with a shit in a bag - he clearly hasn't got the gist.
Mum finds it completely unacceptable,
Whenever there aren't multiple blokes using her as a spunk-receptacle.
Dad: less meat than a bag of Quorn Pieces
Mum: prefers to be covered in faeces
Dad’s ’reconstruction of the shooting of JFK’
Is him wanking in the bushes on the grassy knoll overlooking the area where kids play
The mood in the bogs becomes solemn,
As bloke after bloke fails to meet mum's ever-increasing requirement for "width of column".
Dad's barring from the bogs involves nothing sinister,
Other than the simple fact he has a willy that is miniature.
churn my back end butter.
Your mum's at her cleverest
with a rolled up New Scientist (science fist)
Plenty of blokes eager to deck mum's poo-halls,
But nobody's willing to jingle dad's balls.
All the farm lads are queued up for a go,
And mum's never been one to say no.
