backing up with her dirty slop gate,
pound it now:saturate.
Mum has bogs-blokes in the palm of her hand (like putty),
When there's the pre-shift anticipation of getting up her gutty.
Bog-bloke drones digging huge pit to deal with the run off,
(torrents of murky fluid from mum getting bum stoved off).
From the ranks of good taste and decency there may well be dissenters,
But dad's intent on starring in a film involving no lubes and various Blue Peter presenters.
"This isn't what's listed.";
Moments later, your dad was fisted.
Your father's being held at Her Majesty's pleasure,
For thinking hanging around playgrounds is an appropriate form of leisure.
Mum's seeking to reclaim the narrative,
In the debate around her crapper any longer having any 'give.'
By morning in the bogs, mum can produce a perfectly edible "granola,"
From the sweepings of her "poo-tombola."
Mum's personality's not very likable,
But blokes don't care, as long as she's "town bike-able".
Mum's New Year plans,
Predictably involve farm-hands.
