Mum is no bigot,
In terms of access to her riggot.
No time to ablute or to don the gimp suit
(your father can't wait to destroy his shit-chute).
Mum's been fucking Ironman alter-ego Tony Starks,
Dad's still hanging around waiting for blokes in pub car-parks.
Mum's certainly no debutante,
In taking it up the crap-font.
dad's seventy-fifth bloke this evening was far from satisfied.
the blood/spunk mixture in his shitbox had stratified.
(by an independent surveyor this was ratified.)
Bush's legacy: Silk brocades for presidential aides.
Your Dad's legacy? Decades of dick AIDS.
Sick bags were reached for in the editing suite,
In the final cut of mum's film "Hot Lunch: All You Can Eat."
Mum might not be the sharpest tool in the box,
But, my God, she knows how to take the largest tool up the box.
Massive quantities of crap being forced into your mum's trap...
Hear the crowds cheer and clap!
