Dimensional portal-tear piss.
Mum's ditched the theory with famed psycholinguist, Steven Pinker;
Opting for the very practical, unrelenting destruction of her 'stinker'.
I heard even your mother rang,
On the completion of your first 50-man gang-bang.
Who better to conduct your mum's latest anal horror-sortie,
than former 'Top of the Pops' presenter, Tony Dortie.
Okey-dokey!
Mum's up for blokey-pokey!
No bloke's ever done porridge,
For what they done to mum's shit-ridge.
Mum has no other hobbies or interests at all,
Outside sexual activity with and the consumption of, dog-stool.
Mum's infested twat splat-pasty: stiff like chilled linguini,
Father's rubbish nothing node: a failure 'in-betweeny'.
Dad's been fucking mostly 'roadkill';
It's the only thing that will keep vaguely still.
For recipes, your dad consults the ghost of Fanny Craddock,
Via weegie, Aunt rejuvination
(twat-haddock).
Another bogs-election victory for mum seems a certain bet,
Especially when she's out canvassing with her "golden rosette."
