A PRODIGAL'S RETURN

Press, 4 November 1978, Page 14

A PRODIGAL'S RETURN

Bv WHIM WHAM

You thought you’d heard the Last of me? Sir, how mistaken can You be! The jetlagged Prodigal flies Home. He treads once more his native Loam — No foreign Soil was quite like This. Italian, English, French, or Swiss — Receive me, Sir, in my old Place, Enfold me in your glad Embrace: No need to kill that Fatted Calf. I'll settle for Spring Lamb, or Half A Chicken will suffice to honour me. Having regard to the Economy. Drink to Me, Sir, in Moderation — So much, by way of Salutation . . Two’s company three’s none an improving Poem Rubbishing Politics is a Fool s Game Which any Fool can play, and Many do Your Parliament’s the Dog with a bad Name — Hang it, you hang Yourself! That’s Nothing new. The Politician is a silting Shot. No Fool can miss, however wild his Aim — No Marksmanship's required to hit that Spot, Children and Fools are Champions at this Game. The Politician is a sitting Duck, Fair Game for Fools, and Spaniels of the Media Like me— I wish him well! I wish him luck. He needs it! We need Him. And who’s the needier? The Plague-o’-both-your-Houses kind of Fool Dreams up a Third! A Plague o’ That, I say — Two’s plenty, it’s a democratic Duel, With Clowns for light Relief — till Polling Day! As for the Fool whose Nerves can’t tolerate Tensions between two potent party Forces, He’s ripe for Plucking, the ONE Party State Wil] swallow him some Day — with foreign Sauces. His tender Soul’s too pure for Politics? Which have their Ways of catching up with Fools. Who sneer Today, to him the last Laugh sticke — Ridiculous as What he ridicules