Faces, and then shit and piss.
Mum reminisces,
As her face receives pisses.
Dad's entering Masterchef and hoping to be the winner,
He's sure to make an impact with his lovely roast dog-shit dinner.
Bum-docs pleading with mum that "there's really no winners,"
If she doesn't start working with at least a few more "thinners."
Mum's been awarded an MBE,
For her longstanding service in public lavatories.
It's January and mum's hitting the gym,
To work on a more bogs-hardy quim.
Mum's booting up her CD-ROM of Microsoft Encarta,
To research ways to get more blokes' cocks up her farter.
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.
There's your dad poncing fags in jail,
wanking through the bars, and shitting in a pail.
Mum's selection of sexual partners: willy-nilly.
Dad's selection of sexual partners: willy, willy.
terrible things i've seen,
your dad, a jar of Ragu and an ancient figurine.
