On film, your father remains very calm, never been much of a flincher,
Except of course, during intercourse, when he took that 16-incher.
Mum's listening to 'All the Young Dudes' by Mott the Hoople
(an appropriate soundtrack to a willy-quadruple)
Your dad's in the bathroom, bleeding as he wanks,
High contrast with the porcelain: 'Armitage Shanks'.
Mum's one of those old-school bogs-sluts, prone to to snobbery,
Where it's all about up-the-arse and no cock-gobbery.
Dad's attitude to his anti-cock: Appallingly 'Slap Happy';
It's sun-baked on like wattle and daub;
it's his appallingly smelly 'crap nappy'.
Mum's optimising her 'user funnel'
'card in phone box' -> 'Transit Van' -> 'sign on bog door' -> 'bum'ole'
It's a widely known fact,
That dad's not only nano-cocked, but also pico-sacked.
Mum's a master of the dark arts,
Of diarrhoea infused fanny-farts.
Mum's at Dignitas;
getting fucked in the ass.
When it comes to turdis-wrong,
your dad's got the tee-shirt,
turned away at the vicar's disco
(it's smothered in cock-yoghurt).
