It's Christmas Eve and mum's brown-eye,
Already resembles an open-topped mince pie.
Mum's teaching a class at Night School:
'Advanced Level Sex Work With Stools.'
(to tune of ABBA's The Winner Takes It All)
'Your mummy takes them all,
Your daddy's willy: small,
Together in the gents,
Different kinds of sex-offence.'
Even techniques of complex-valued geometry,
Are inadequate to explain mum's chronically-knobbed neths-taxonomy.
Bogs-dieticians suggesting a high-fibre diet to budge,
Mum's enormous "poo-berg" of packed fudge.
afterwards your mum said I was sick,
to use her apron to wipe off my dick
All the farm lads ganged up on mum's turder,
And now it looks like the aftermath of a grisly murder.
Mum's in the bogs, absolutely "flying",
At the centre for assisted dying.
Dad: cry-wanking to "Leisure Suit Larry" on fourteen floppy disks
Mum: in the bogs with fourteen unfloppy dicks
Dad prefers farm men,
And / or children.
