Shit the bedroom
Mum runs out of patience, If bogs-blokes forget to refill the Dog-Shit Stations.
Mum's star status as an internationally renowned bogs-slut may be dimming, But she's still capable of taking an absolute "brimming."
Mum's cunt is far from ship-shape and Bristol fashion, Over the years it's taken a right old smashin.
Mum would be loathe to admit it, But she is actually covered head to foot in dog-shit.
Docker's thumbs like an Atlantic Whaler, Horrific throb-on like Vlad the impaler. Your father: 'Hello, sailor!'.
Dad with a placard, demanding his rights, To mince up and down the high street in a push-up bra and tights.
Bogs? Queue. Mum? Due.
There's absolute pandemonium, Either side of mum's perineum.
Dad attempts to lure kids for sex, Riding around on a BMX.
Your dad requires specialist made-to-measure tweezers, For when he wants to try and put his willy in geezers.
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