Publish a 1000 page, densely printed leather-bound tome called ‘How to wipe your bottom, for people who don’t know how to wipe their own bottom’ and then go around leaving a copy in a drawer, Gideon bible style, in every place I visit.
Mum can leave a bogs-shift furrow-browed,
If her arse hasn't been sufficiently 'ploughed.'
Mum's dung-bunker has won universal plaudits;
In the April Twenty Twenty Capacious-turdis audit(s).
On his way into the bogs, dad was "clocked,"
As not being even remotely "cocked."
Dad’s lurking by the bins behind Lidl
Hoping to catch a stray lost child kid-fiddle
Dad's really into Power Rangers,
And showing his willy to strangers.
There's no need to be remotely obtuse,
your dad in the sack is of no practical use.
Dad's conflating the idea he has feminist principles,
With the fact he has tiny and dysfunctional genitals.
Mum sometimes gets the willies
That one day she might not get the willies
I saw your mum and thought I ought to warn her that there's not much business on that street corner.
