Dad's happy,
With his new design for a lingerie nappy.
Mum's been left saddled,
With a fanny that's been 'over-paddled.'
Bloke to Dad: "Is it in?"
Dad to bloke: "Yes, (*shameful sob*), it's just thin."
Mum's in the bedroom covered in a jar of Uncle Ben's (ready to cook),
Dad's in the kitchen wanking over Ken Hom(o)'s new stirfry cock-wok book.
The bogs-atmosphere is highly charged and highly dog-manurey,
As a platoon of swole-cocked blokes knob mum with unbridled fury.
Your mum: gurning cunt - colossal wizard's sleeve,
your dad: choking on big bloke prick
(half-brother, Steve).
As that big gents-bloke delivered his vast load into the arsehole of your mother,
Several onlookers mentioned you could see her internal organs shudder.
Sick bags were reached for in the editing suite,
In the final cut of mum's film "Hot Lunch: All You Can Eat."
Mum prefers ‘Baked bean tin’
To ‘thin’
Bogs-therapists treating traumatised bogs-blokes hear a similar tale,
Descriptions of mum's twat: "empty tube of Pringles," flavour: "prawn and cocktail."
