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 children
by the score, from Kidsgrove to Mablethorpe
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 wank, 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 masturbates,
Each ejaculation 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 liked a boy with spunk, took him home and got him drunk
She held his 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
