The Prodigal's Monorhyme

In our father's house, you were doing fine, but you did not want to toe the line. Father, you said, 'give me what is mine.' Leaving home sent a jolt of joy up your spine. No more scenes of servants grazing kine, or picking grapes off the vine. Feasting on choice cuts with the chine, sporting with women, and drinking wine, living in a ritzy ranch on the banks of the Rhine. You have many friends who love to dine, but you are too naive to know that is a bad sign. Poof-poverty pounces and pierces like a tine, now broke, homeless, hungry, you start to pine. To earn money, you take a job feeding swine. At nights you lie on the streetside and whine, thinking of the servants and how well they dine. It is okay, you ragamuffin to regret and repine. Get up my brother and toward home your feet incline. The sight of you will make our father’s face shine.