Dad's reached the stage,
Of hanging around the orphanage.
From the side of common decency dad defected,
As he realised it was only within playgrounds that his willy erected.
By end of shift, mum's arsehole emits a sort of frothy brown latte,
That smells like gone off duck pâté.
Dad’s using electron microscopy
In a vain attempt to detect his tiny ‘Mr floppy’
Dad's the unfortunate victim of a Trump day one executive order,
Barring entry to the US for men with prick size 1mm or shorter.
Dad's genital is among
The very poorest with which it is possible to be hung.
From mum it’s a ‘thumbs down’
If a bloke fails to ‘pot the brown’
Has mum been thoroughly arse-nailed by dozens of well-hung blokes in a public toilet cubicle, her hair matted with spunk, smeared with dog-shit and in a state of undress?
Yes.
Dad with a placard, demanding his rights,
To mince up and down the high street in a push-up bra and tights.
On the first bus of the morning after another night in the bogs, mum reaches for her bus pass,
And experiences a Proustian moment of realisation, as all the spunk dribbles out of her arse.
