Staple my balls to my face.
Thick blokes bedeck mum with "dog-trifle",
Then scuttle round the back, for a good "rifle".
Consult the bar chart:
It's statistically most likely to be a cum-froth fart.
Mum considers it a disappointment
If after a bogs-sesh her bum'ole doesn't require a considerable amount of ointment
First light, morning,
And bogs-blokes enter a period of mourning,
As it's dawning,
That mum's arsehole has begun contracting: an 'un-yawning.'
Mum demands cast iron promises,
That all bogs-blokes have "diamond-cutter John Thomases."
Back alley 'fucks mum', for punters dressed up like The Easter Bunny,
With a strange brown 'faux-fondant' dribbling from her ruined cunny.
All hopes collapse,
Of mum failing to prolapse.
Mum prefers to be done up the arse,
By angry, disenfranchised members of the working class.
Wow, those gent-blokes are pounding your mother at full throttle,
And none of them has a willy smaller than a 3 litre Coke bottle.
Dad = transvestite,
Mum = 'bucket-fanny-not-tight.'
