Directions

with anagrams of directions, indicted thus *

‘Hand over my inheritance.’ Father did, and his son left, going down to Dissipation City, where thous*ands went west, right quickly, splashed out on flouting, foulmouthed living, right? Soon it was gone, and famine struck.

The layabout boy took an unorthodox job with low-life pigs, and desired to stuff down their thorn*y food. His mind was brightly enlightened as he realised his father’s hired men ate downright well. He sprang up from his seat*.

‘Right. This is over. I shall arise and go home, and work for dad. I’m no longer worthy to be called a son.’

While he was still along way off, (still en route), his father saw him from his high vantage point and took some northings and ran south to greet him. He hugged him and pu*t a coat over his shoulders (couture from a boutique), shoes on his feet and a ring around his finger. He ordered that the fatted calf be sent down to slaughter, and rotated the cleft carcass of the beast on a spit over a fire.

Awestruck, stout party guests crowded around; they troughed down and feasted on potatoes in their jackets with eggs sunny side up, unctuo*us slow cooked vegetable stew*, southern fried chicken thighs, wings and breasts, croutons, ate* many rounds of beans on unleavened toast (made without the use of yeast), toad in the hole, underdone lamb, and drank vermouth and fruit teas*. Soon there was none left. 

The devout father said ‘This my sallowest son was lying down in the grave, right, but now east-ands up with us again, no doubt. High praise!’