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 …