The wardrobe won't close to, its full of paternity suits,
Eight kids to a room, some more have gone to school,
He's running out of names, the wife's pregnant again,
They've tried diaphragms, the snip, and johnny bags.

They even use spermicide, the wife's been sterilised,
But those sperms of his just won't lay down and die,
He's got sprogs by different girls, from Kidsgrove to Motherwell,
Morecombe to Maidenhead, his fertile seed is spread,
From here to Ilfracombe he'll fertilise your womb,
He'll sweat on you, coz he's got pregnant pores.

Even when he has a w___, he never ever fires a blank,
The most fertile man this side of Wythenshawe,
The rising population's due to one man's copulations,
When he fornicates, or when he m_________s,
Each e__________ tends to stop a menstruation,
Straight away, there's a pregnant pause.

Another one on the way, more cards on Father's Day,
The most fertile man this side of Wythenshawe,
He was telling the midwife that he'd been castrated twice,
But snips and IUDs can't control his rampant seed.

She said she liked a boy with s____, took him home and got him drunk,
He held her hand, now she's got pregnant paws,
Now at least they'll both be happy, down Mothercare buying nappies,
The most fertile man this side of Wythenshawe

Another one on the way, more cards on Father's Day,
The most fertile man this side of Wythenshawe,

©1993 The Macc Lads

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