Ode to my Folks

The secret of eternal joy, unrivaled by another,
is sitting on my lazy 'arse while pampered by my mother!
My father has his uses too, to satisfy my whims,
by constant filling of my glass, with beer or scotch or pimms!
And when my words all muddle up, my legs begin to fold,
they'll bundle me up to my bed so poor me don't get cold.
But best of all, the morning aft', while moaning at my plight,
they'll feed me up 'till I can drink and once again get tight!