Your body is certainly no fucking temple,
You work on the streets, you're up for rental.
What mum regularly fails to think through,
Is how, post shift, she'll be able to go for a poo.
Mum is psychically connected,
To bogs-blokes who have just erected.
Dad's experiencing massive FOMO
Seeing Wetherspoon massive homo.
smear my face with shit,
then fuck my mouth a bit.
Dad’s getting sadder and sadder:
Every willy check, results come back the same: ‘nada’
Docker's thumbs like an Atlantic Whaler,
Horrific throb-on like Vlad the impaler.
Your father: 'Hello, sailor!'.
There was an ambivalence in your mother's eyes, as if she wasn't fussed,
That at least 300 blokes had spunked in her face (just as previously discussed).
Back alley 'fucks mum', for punters dressed up like The Easter Bunny,
With a strange brown 'faux-fondant' dribbling from her ruined cunny.
Dad: Penis scale 'HO'
Mum: bogs bloke sandwich 'to go'
