Oh please, for goodness sake.
Dad's listening to Wham, "Careless Whisper,"
Whilst anally ingesting a Cadbury's Whisper.
It's mum's arsehole,
And, yep, it's gone off egg roll.
Dad's new bum-fuck contraption set up in the toilet,
Oh-no though, the massive probe's stuck on 'in' setting (he'd forgotten to oil it).
Mum's main area of knowledge,
Centres around 'arseholedge.'
Mum never feels sexually complete,
Until she has an extremely sore seat.
Blokes like bees devouring,
Mum's stinking brown flowering.
Come end of shift, the structural integrity of mum's poo-ledge,
Is on a knife edge.
Your dad's dropped the sexual batton,
mum's posing in the new anal section of catalogue: Gratton.
It's almost as if mum's designed,
To be fucked from behind.
While your mum's capable of 'the sexual can-can,'
Your dad is (sexually) something of an 'also ran-ran.'
