(a knock on from the poetry practice forum; visit it 
a small edit done on advice from the post below this one(thanks Leanne))
My father didn't call me son,
he wanted mum to be a nun.
Alas her legs did not stay shut;
the village branded her a slut
and out i popped, the bakers bun.
Dad knew I wasn't from his gun
he fired blanks that never spun.
He didn't bang, he just went phut.
My father.
The vicar banged dear mom, and done
the dirty deed; he came a ton.
He felt the toes of daddy's foot
so high; he nearly bust a gut.
he doesn't want to share my fun,
my father.
i'm not as confident about the iambs in this one
a small edit done on advice from the post below this one(thanks Leanne))My father didn't call me son,
he wanted mum to be a nun.
Alas her legs did not stay shut;
the village branded her a slut
and out i popped, the bakers bun.
Dad knew I wasn't from his gun
he fired blanks that never spun.
He didn't bang, he just went phut.
My father.
The vicar banged dear mom, and done
the dirty deed; he came a ton.
He felt the toes of daddy's foot
so high; he nearly bust a gut.
he doesn't want to share my fun,
my father.
i'm not as confident about the iambs in this one