Your mums excitement got ahead of her,
she force-fed your dad her soggy wheatabix enema.
Mum's insistence on entertaining all four coachloads of visiting blokes from Johannesburg,
Has resulted in the dislodging of an enormous 'spunkberg.'
Mum's one of the favourites to win this year's 'Sex-Factor,'
Dad in lowly bedsit room measuring his prick with compass and protractor.
Imprison me in a web of emotional distress
due to my pubis.
In this world, nothing is certain except death and taxes,
Oh, and the relentless hammering of mum's poo-axis.
Mum's in the bogs,
With low-cogs.
Dad was never going to get far,
Going out, dressed only in his learner bra.
"Everyone's looking at your prick, your prick,
Deciding unanimously, not thick, not thick..."
(repeat).
Bogs-bloke's struggling to show a modicum of moral compass;
As a thronging mass of enorno-cocks rapidly bang her bum-puss.
Mum's in the bogs, smashed on Malbec,
Dad's skulking outside with no erec.
