One o’ the Lord’s gospel stories:
‘Loot, please!’ son said, and departed north on a trip. He had pints and shots in the posh Grand Hotel. Sheila, Linda, headstrong April, Lisa, Portia, Sharon, longhaired Stephanie, Angelina, Gail, Doreen (soprano), Glenda, Leigh the phrenologist, Olga, Edith (isn’t she the red hot hairdo girl?), thin Daphne, Diana – this is an harlot plethora, or a shedload o’ geishas – pert Rhoda, Dinah (alto), Sophie, Gloria the gondolier and Delia (pretties). Spooned; had eros’ rhinohorn (rather aphrodesial), and got plastered.
Danger: less loot. Great danger: no loot. Ordeal!
He is soon in a drool-plight; eating pigs’ horrid slop? No, – it’s poison-dosage! Shoo! Loathing. Gosh, stop, lad, as senses are inspired. Dad’s hirelings eat… I’ll arise, hope he pardons in pathos. Not right to plead as son.
Pastoral Dad has long distant sight in garden; his heart leaps. Ran, ardent. Lad had not said his phrase… attire, shoes (galoshes), gold ring o’ingot.
‘Roast dingo loin, pigeon, gander! Protein and aloo gosht, alongside haslet, grapes, hotdogs, pralines!’ he said. ‘I’ll greet all as host. Dear son lost… ghost? No! Delighted – lad I adore not dead! All atoned: I’ll do a little readopting. Praise the rootin’ tootin’ Lord!’
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