The Prodigals

I hope to kill the fatted calf somehow,

Before its youth is gone, and in its stead

There stands a lean and empty-uddered cow

From whom all festiveness has fled;

Before its innocence, naiveté,

Has, from neglect, been changed to dull, morose,

Unfeeling gloom that holds all joy at bay,

And with its bones it pierces skin drawn close.

I hope to pile the groaning board up high,

And importune the prodigals to eat,

Ignore the Elder Brother standing by,

And give themselves completely to the meat.

But what if prodigals exist no more,

And all are Elder Brothers at the door?