Weird farm fuck with pitchforks and haybails,
there's your dad wanking over his own entrails.
Your mum is much like the New York headquarters of the United Nations
(members from 192 countries enter her daily and engage in mass debations).
Bogs-blokes are playing a weird game of Connect Four,
With the hemorrhoids surrounding mum's back door.
Dad's always got some new plan hatching,
For snaring those with no pubic thatching.
Dad's discovered, to his chagrin,
That not even anorexic women,
Appreciate a man's penis being thin.
Surrounded on all sides by some unknown matter;
Ah, not to worry, it's faecal splatter.
April is indeed the cruelest month,
That big-bloke basically removed your mum's 'cunth.'
I made out the complaints about the massive dick,
In amongst the wrenching barfs of you being sick.
Whenever there's a round of layoffs,
Unemployed blokes hurry to the bogs, to cover mum with their knob-coughs.
I've emptied my nuts,
Into your mum's guts!
