Mum's favourite poem, "Do Not Go Gently into that Good Night,"
And when you see the number of blokes in the queue, you think 'yes, quite.'
Mum's considers it an obsolete chore;
having any semblance of pelvic floor.
Mum’s not got much truck with Sir Keith Starmer
Her favoured candidate is Big Bloke Barry AKA ‘Bumhole harmer’
Bloke after bloke scores multiple ‘critical hits’
On the area from which Mum shits
Sad Dad coming out of court, failed to ‘beat the rap’
‘No gens’ indecent exposure defence a failure because he was also ‘completely covered in crap’
In the 90's it all got rather surreal,
When your mum and dad were both fucking Eastenders' Ian Beale.
I've talked to the men at the top,
they insist your mother be smothered in slops,
There's some movement on this: bile, shit, or half-brewed horror-hops.
Mum recalls the nights watching BBC Ceefax,
Post-shift waiting for her arsehole to relax,
From being at completely 'max.'
I saw your mum and thought I ought to warn her that there's not much business on that street corner.
In order to be penetrated by those precious extra few inches,
Mum and bogs-blokes employ a sophisticated system of scaffold and winches.
