Giving you the silver because the real power move would have been to execute the shit while on the call
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Mum’s in the bogs
Covered in dog poo
Shame on you for reading this, as your poor father chokes on my fetid piss.
Mum's not particularly scrupulous
About who she lets into her poo-palace
Mum just tries to stay 'zen,'
When she's taking on lots and lots of men.
Dad has a really tenuous grasp,
Of when and when not to release his trouser belt clasp.
Interactions in the bogs rarely involve words,
Mainly grunts, moans and the exchange of dog-turds.
First light, morning,
And bogs-blokes enter a period of mourning,
As it's dawning,
That mum's arsehole has begun contracting: an 'un-yawning.'
What's the dribbling from Dad's aching chasm?
It's 'Ghostbusters' merchandise: protoplasm.
Your dad's ability to gain an erection: long gone,
Now, even when looking at blokes, it's just an eighth-on.
