dad lay open-mouthed, motionless,
as down on his face gushed an ocean of piss.
Mum's punani,
Smells like a Ryanair panini.
You should have seen the state of the area from which mum fartres,
Following a post-mass anal-sesh in the car park of the cathedral at Chartres.
Favourite auntie's wedding,
father shits the bedding.
Dad's entering Masterchef and hoping to be the winner,
He's sure to make an impact with his lovely roast dog-shit dinner.
Massed ranks of blokes going ‘over the top’ assaulting Mum’s poo-gulch
In what’s come to be known as the ‘Battle of the Bulge’
Dad's an incorrigible paedo-sexual,
Whose genitals are, fortunately, ineffectual.
There is a sombre mood,
As blokes gather reflectively around the area from which mum once pooed.
All that time your mum spent fucking Paul Gascoigne,
Really effected her cunt to arse 'join.'
There's invariably a panoply,
Of visitors in mum's shit-canopy.
