Mum runs out of patience,
If bogs-blokes forget to refill the Dog-Shit Stations.
Mum's star status as an internationally renowned bogs-slut may be dimming,
But she's still capable of taking an absolute "brimming."
Mum's cunt is far from ship-shape and Bristol fashion,
Over the years it's taken a right old smashin.
Mum would be loathe to admit it,
But she is actually covered head to foot in dog-shit.
Docker's thumbs like an Atlantic Whaler,
Horrific throb-on like Vlad the impaler.
Your father: 'Hello, sailor!'.
Dad with a placard, demanding his rights,
To mince up and down the high street in a push-up bra and tights.
There's absolute pandemonium,
Either side of mum's perineum.
Dad attempts to lure kids for sex,
Riding around on a BMX.
Your dad requires specialist made-to-measure tweezers,
For when he wants to try and put his willy in geezers.
