The Story of the Prodigal Son
written in the key of F flat.
Feeling, frisky, foxy, foot loose, and fancy free, and fostering fond hopes for finding fun free from family forbidings, a fast, freckle-faced, feather-brained fellow forced his father to fork over a few farthings.
Then one February Friday, he fled far into a foreign field where he frittered his fortune – feasting fabulously with faithless friends, fraternizing with fallen fugitives, frolicking with fat free loaders, and flirting foolishly with fickle females.
Finally fleeced of his fortune by his fellows-in-folly, and facing famine, he found himself a feed-flinger in a filthy, fungus-filled, fly-ridden farmyard. He fain would have fed his flabby, falling, flimsy flesh with foraged food from the fodder fragments. Phooey, phooey, my father’s fat, flatfoot, farm flunkies fare far fancier the frazzled fugitive feverishly fumed, frankly facing facts. Frustrated with fear and filled with forebodings, he fled forthwith to his family.
Falling at the faithful father’s feet, he floundered forlornly. “Father, I’ve flunked. Father, I’ve been fouled, flubbed, and fiddled by the fickle finger of fate. Father, I’ve forever forfeited future family favor. Father, I’m finished”. But the faithful father, forestalling future flinchings, frantically flagged and flailed the farm flunkies to fetch forth the finest fatling and fix a feast. The faithful father fed friends and family from four-fifteen to five-fifty-five with fricasseed pheasant, fine fruits, and fresh french fries.
But the fugitive’s fault finding brother frowned on such forgiveness of former folderol. His fury flashed. He faked a fit to a fair thee well. But fuming was futile, the faithful father figured, filial fidelity is fine, but what forbids fervent festivity. “Find the flags, fill the flutes, fill the flutes. Let fun and frolic freely flow. Former folly is forgotten, former failure is forsaken, and forgiveness forms the foundation for future fortitude”.
Copyright © C. Hastings Smith