Dad's listening to pop-chill-pioneer PM Dawn;
Slack packet twitchless;
Penis = S.O.R.N.
Mum's on patrol,
turdis-face: brown coal,
anal horror for folk gone-shocking
(it gapes, like a salad bowl).
At this stage, it's unlikely mum's going to be cured,
Of her addiction-like need to be arse-skewered.
Bogs-blokes know that mum isn't seeking any kind of romance or glamour,
She just needs blokes to hold the fuck-pace of an industrial jackhammer.
Mum looks forward to the annual bogs visit from Saint Nic,
Not least because he's got an absolutely fucking massive prick.
Mum headlining act on 'How Many Shits in The Mouth?'
Oh, and direction her tits heading?
South.
Big bloke spunked so devestatingly far up mum's arsehole,
Now her mouth basically doubles up as 'er fart 'ole.
Mum's Bermuda triangle fanny: fetid but equilateral;
Corpses of lost men compete with the stench of mackerel.
Dad's got a 30mm 'Classic Knob';
Compact and thin;
'Key fob'.
Mum believes she’s found a loophole
Via which she can achieve a ‘willy quadruple’.
