The local bogs has its own fleet of taxis,
Driving bogs-blokes from their door to mum's poo-axis.
Twenty first century mum at the forefront of the 'arsehole of things';
Poo, wee, sperms, cattle carcases, and a kilo of 'fetid herrings'.
One day, Mum both hopes and fears she’ll take a lover
Who’ll do her bum’ole an injury from which it will not recover.
Mum's shitter: let's get agricultural,
Dad's penis: completely ineffectual.
Mum's been getting bummed hard of late,
And she's having a bogs bumsex party to celebrate.
Mum makes her own luck,
By always being up for a bum-fuck.
Ambulance crews thrown something of a curve-ball,
As they arrived on the scene of Dad's latest anal-maul,
Surgically, it certainly now seems like a marginal-call,
Whether or not they manage to excavate that ingested medicine-ball.
Coke can bottom silhouette tattoed by the entrance to mum's 'mudslide'
Bearing the legend 'you must be at least this thick to ride'
Mum's a strict width-stickler,
When a bloke wants a go on her poo-funicular.
Reconcile with my prolapse
