Different blokes, different pokes, you've been fucked by the cast of TV's 'Brush Strokes'.
Between mum's legs,
Resembles scrambled dog-eggs.
Dad's in his slops, in the 'even more damp patch',
Mum's slap-dash-snatch-latch;
scratch, scratch, scratch.
By morning in the bogs, mum can produce a perfectly edible "granola,"
From the sweepings of her "poo-tombola."
Hi, I'm one of your mum's old flames,
From way back when she was on the game.
Last night, there was a lot of bogs-blokes muttering,
After mum inconceivably chose to go buttering,
Her poo-guttering.
Pummel my shit-keg, cave it in, make it worse,
then force an acoustic rendition of something shit by Fred Durst.
What's dad looking at there on his screen?
Why, it's some of the strongest child abuse material that has ever been seen.
After a particularly heavy night, the bum-doctors feared for your mother's bum-bum health,
And I can personally vouch for the fact she was (sexually) a pale shadow of her former self.
Mum's "orchestrating a string quartet,"
None of whom are close to "reaching the climax of the end of the piece yet."
