Roboplegic Wrongcock.
Blokes, alarmed mum might be going "off the boil", Urgently airdrop in a load of dog-soil.
a small goat, a french horn, and a picture of King Lear: the most interesting items i've found in your rear.
Mum's knob preference is "XXXXX-large", But all dad has is a sort of weird "penis-mirage".
Has mum been thoroughly arse-nailed by dozens of well-hung blokes in a public toilet cubicle, her hair matted with spunk, smeared with dog-shit and in a state of undress? Yes. 
Mum's ringing Deliveroo, To see if they can send out some fresh dog-poo.
Dad realises an existential junction, Has arrived with his erectile dysfunction.
It's only halfway through free practice, And the blokes have already knackered mum's bum-elastics.
Dad's gens, Simply don't look like those of other men's.
Mum’s got a β€˜responsive design’ In terms of being able to accommodate many different willy sizes in her behine
Mum's penned some beautifully profound poetry, Entitled "When Blokes Really Plough it Into Me..."
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