Wrong-potty poetry.
Mum's arsehole is an "open goal", To any bloke with a thick pole. While, 98% of the time, on the Skol.
Dad nervously clasps his prosecco flute, At singles night for blokes (category: penis minute).
In the mathematical world it's quite sensational Dad's been awarded the Fields Medal in topology for 'having a penis which is literally one-dimensional'
Politics Dad launching another of his Parish Council bids His platform this time? β€˜Free β€˜health examinations’ for all kids’
Unusually pungent stench emitting from your mother's shit-slot, A rummage around reveals what's what... A week old salami some bloke had left up there to rot!!
In East Midlands parlance, mum's now 'reet mardi'; Very few of the bog-blokes can be described as 'farmyard'(y).
Even though his penis has been medically proven as inneffectual, Dad's still classified by police as a 'dangerous homosexual.'
Absolutely insist that I ingest, the piss and shit section of the "Reader's Digest".
Mum's plan? Taking pricks from massive to gargantuan.
What's that horrid cunt-stench wafting? Mum's back on the game in the gents-bogs-lofting.
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