A family

The father's sure not to be there,
After dealing he'll pump some chér,
Making drops in his prized sports car,
Fuelled by burgers, weed and cider,

But the mother ain't gonna care,
Not while the Left covets power,
He a weed, speed, small time dealer,
She inking blokes for cash to spare,

Lavish from a sole provider?
Yet another kid in a pushchair,
I think that's eleven so far,
No, wait, two were with another,

The son walks in with a swagger,
He's a mirror to his father,
Tattooed with a bad attitude,
Kind supportive, a friend that's true.