Cunt.
Dad's on his sixteenth connecting flight to the heart of Beijing; To rendezvous with a specialist on blokes with 'cock like bee sting'.
Mum's bent over in the bogs sipping on piΓ±a coladas, Occasionally offering encouraging shouts of "go fuckin' 'arder."
It's the pits; Head to toe smothering in liquid guinness shit(s).
In the gents, there's no hard and fast rules, Mum simply wants loose and fast stools.
Dad's literary agent thinks he could be the AnaΓ―s Nin Of the child-obsessed and genitally thin
Mum'll take a pummel where it's farty, For a single 90s promo blue smartie.
Mum's a perennial bogs-favourite despite a strong physical resemblance to a melted waxwork of Who frontman Roger Daltrey Dad's trouser portion: a charitable description would be 'paltry'
your mum has been described, by those that have seen her, as;
a 'fleshy jizz sock',
a 'spoiled meat hole',
and 'chunky old cortina'.
Dad’s lurking by the bins behind Lidl Hoping to catch a stray lost child kid-fiddle
Dad's doing his morning rounds, Of the local playgrounds.
Poetry Player
Loading tracks...
Poetry Player
Filename will appear here
Total ratings
Loading...
Total views
Loading...
Never
Login to rate and submit clockfuckers