There's no part of your mum that could be termed 'uncharted territory',
Your dad in 'Bad Cock Weekly': He's the lead story.
At the orgy of TV detectives,
Your eyesight was not defective,
You went and got your mini Kodak,
When your dad went down on Theo Kojak.
Dad's employing blatant kidology,
Explaining his need to photograph a kids birthday party.
Dad's experiencing toxic shock:
His immune system has finally rejected his nano-cock.
Tits like plantains; drooping, not ripe.
And the main route for sex, of course, is always the shitpipe.
Dad claims he misread signs around the primary school indicating 'Local Elections,'
Now he's in the back of a police car, heading in the nonce-shop direction.
When your dad announced that he'd pickled his prick, he certainly wasn't bluffing;
your mum's encrusted trout farm cunt smells just like onion stuffing.
Your mum: 'Bigguns';
Your dad: Biggins.
It is with a mixture of pride and courage,
That mum produces her daily prolapse porridge.
Blokes doing illegal stuff,
To mum's crap trough.
