For mum, it's a total no-brainier,
To work out of a dog-shit strewn shipping container.
Mum: chasmal shit cabinet like a fucked Dim Sum;
Dad?
Ladbrokes, Wrexham.
Your mum reminds me of a prostitute hag from Orwell's '1984',
The warbling tune, her empty mind, persistant stench: coleslaw.
Your mum is well known to be able to excellently manhandle,
Any size (usually massive) bloke's panhandle.
Mum's never going to win any beauty pageants,
Her bogs-ravaged cunt and tits are in fucking fragments.
Mum's absolutely furious,
At some bloke suggesting she might be "thin-curious."
Mum won’t settle for anything less
Than being completely covered in dog mess
Dad’s having a hard time finding sponsors
For his new podcast ‘by and for nonces’
Mum's like some sort of sentient sperm 'cement mixer',
Dad's poor cock, though, isn't getting any thick(s)-er.
Bogs-docs remain deeply skeptical;
Can mum's bum continue as a viable spunk receptacle?
