An Ode to Michael Madsen

by Gabriel Grossman

Sing, goddess, the anger of Mad’s son Michael

And its devastation, which put pain thousandfold upon

Zaller and his Zaz.

What was it then set them together in bitter collision?

The sad sombrero, or the menacing moustache—marauding

in guise of greater guile?

Strike up in your mind’s eye, noble Madsen

Just how you’ve made alien your most loyal

Apostle, who preached your gospel and sung your praise:

Yes, Madsen: mind most high

(whose penis prevails perpetual

the proof of which lies potent

in the pudding of Zaller’s visage)

scholar and renaissance man,

who no doubt appreciates this English heroic verse,

why forsake ye your truest of friends?

A comedian comes to stroke your

Ego, his sole job rests in hurting himself,

That renders you more regal

You do it yourself, yielding

Not to conscience, or the cacophony

Of other multiple persons that in your mind

Lurk, lying in wait with specious passion

Of self-defence.

Oh, muse, do make him see,

Give him sight of the specific sorrow,

Yea take his eyes farther than his tactful hat,

Now that he may know what he has done:

That he has taken our job,

Becoming the barb

That the comedian continu’lly seeks.

What use have we for jokes

Or whimsy, when you

For our pleasure do all provide:

Your dream-drought

And your high hat—

That merry mitre of a majestic mind.

Muse or dote, Mr Madsen, do take note

These comedians wish you would comport

Since now we will see you sink, not float

In the costly and honored halls of civil court.