The Prodigal Son had returned,
His dad was in despair,
Gone to slaughter the fatted calf
But the blighter wasn't there.
Rustled by some townies
For quick and easy gain
And very rapidly sold
To a dodgy restaurant chain.
Quickly butchered and cooked.
So no evidence could be seen,
Served up on builders' rubble
As advanced nouvelle cuisine.
Enjoyed by a Convention
Of rich Luxury Glampers
Who washed down their steaks with
Gallons and quarts of Champers.
There's no justice to this story
For the rustlers were never caught
And the restaurateur waxed fat
From the stolen beef he'd bought.
But that's today's Tory Britain
Led by Boris the ex Hack
Who's promised to us all
We'll have our Country Back,
Or at least what's left of it
After he's sold us to his mates
And in all but name we become
Newest of the American States
So, Dad had his welcome party
But his joy was cut by half:
How can you welcome back
A Prodigal without a fatted calf?
