What praise has he earned?
Your youngest son has turned and fled,
No different from the sheep we’ve led.
As if confronted by the gleaming fangs of wolves who crave his very flesh.
But no such hauntings once befell him.
His body belongs buried in the dirt, Your son never labored over this earth.
With out work, how can a man measure his worth?
Kindly stop this madness father,
He deserves no feast of bread and wine.
Surely you know between witless and wise there lies a very thin line.
You have abandoned your home.