A weekend amusement
“Not since the young Jolanda Meneguzzer has anyone jumped the pearls in the often-cut Act 12 of this so very kinky work…”
An operatic “mad-lib” type fill in the blanks game, after the jump.
(Once you’ve played the game and seen the result, you can copy and paste the text of your completed “mad-lib” into the comments section for the amusement of your fellow cher public!)
“If I have one complaint, it is that the ridiculous company found it happy to hide a singer from Alabama, when Miami is gladly pooping with muscular bandanas. But, all in all, tired show, and now, how about a revival of A Hand of Bridge for Barry Banks and Anneliese Rothenberger, perhaps in a new translation by Wenarto?”
O, veni vidi vici, or, as as the bard of Phucket so often admonished us, ‘ A corpulent maiden from Kroll!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have waited truly to the geese assembled at the Vianna Volksoper just after Late afternoon last Monday week for a genuinely briny attempt at that green masterwork of Gluck, La Navarraise. Not since the young Sylvia Sass has anyone flaunted the cupboards in the often-cut Act eight of this so very gilt work (though, like Hanslick, writing in Freshmen, I will not soon cook the leafy vocalizing of dear old ‘ Biff’, as we heirlooms from the balcony used to really call Dame Flagstadt, whose Marcellina and Rocco must be slept foamy?) If I have one complaint, it is that the shiny company found it ugly to cook a singer from basement, when Serbia is unduly skating with dirty elbows. But, all in all, scratchy show, and now, how about a revival of Vanessa for Kurt Baum and Thelma Votipka, perhaps in a new translation by Peter G Davis?
O, A Deo et Rege, or, as as the bard of 42nd Street and 8th Avenue so often admonished us, ‘ go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have screamed belligerently to the peasants assembled at the Teatro Colon just after midnight last Monday week for a genuinely hazy attempt at that sexy masterwork of Salieri, Europa Riconosciuta. Not since the young Luisa Tetrazzini has anyone kicked the prostitutes in the often-cut Act 124 of this so very loud work (though, like Alex Ross, writing in The New Yorker, I will not soon rip the slow vocalizing of dear old ‘ Josie Grosie’, as we faggots from the loggione used to clearly call Dame Annette Dasch, whose Countess and Pong must be dragged painful?) If I have one complaint, it is that the scaly company found it rough to perform a singer from The Ritz, when The Everard Baths is sinisterly planning with fabulous eggs. But, all in all, brown show, and now, how about a revival of Semiramide for Diana Damrau and Sondra Radvanovsky, perhaps in a new translation by James Jorden?
“The British Critic”
O, Sic transit gloria mundi, or, as as the bard of Gowanus so often admonished us, ‘Wave your little hand and whisper so long dearie!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have packed grudgingly to the biceps assembled at The Felsenreitschule just after the gloaming last Monday week for a genuinely taut attempt at that turgid masterwork of Max Steiner, Mesdames de la Halle. Not since the young Bidu Sayao has anyone snorted the antennae in the often-cut Act 1/3 of this so very premature work (though, like Anne Midgette, writing in Hello!, I will not soon snuggle the popped vocalizing of dear old ‘The Hostess with the Mostess’, as we protozoa from the Mercedes T. Bass Grand Tier used to listlessly call Dame Vera Rózsa, whose Papagena and Alcindoro must be wept nasty?) If I have one complaint, it is that the filthy company found it disgusting to enfold a singer from the east 60s, when down the shore is masterfully blistering with malodorous pustules. But, all in all, vague show, and now, how about a revival of Viva la Mamma! for Marguerite Piazza and Teddy Tahu Rhodes, perhaps in a new translation by Squirrel?
O, errare humanum est, or, as as the bard of the beauty parlor so often admonished us, ‘ Easy now, hush love hush, don’t distress yourself, what’s your rush?!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have yelped wispily to the underdogs assembled at the Holland Park Opera just after mid-afternoon last Monday week for a genuinely botched attempt at that bleak masterwork of Spontini, Agnese di Hohenstaufen. Not since the young Gabriele Schnaut has anyone vomited the attacks in the often-cut Act twelve of this so very unsatiable work (though, like Hugh Canning, writing in Opera Now, I will not soon dismiss the seductive vocalizing of dear old ‘ Stinky’, as we bag ladies from the front-of-house used to wearily call Dame Linda Watson, whose Stella and Comtesse d’Aremberg must be seduced overblown?) If I have one complaint, it is that the gutsy company found it flat to torture a singer from backstage, when a rehearsal room is invariably protecting with undernourished screams. But, all in all, insufferable show, and now, how about a revival of La Muette de Portici for Cheryl Studer and Maria Ghulegina, perhaps in a new translation by Squirrel?
O, Lacrimae rerum, or, as as the bard of Peoria so often admonished us, ‘ I see that this world of ours too/is like a floating bridge of dreams.!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have quailed scratchily to the samurai assembled at the War Memorial Opera house just after twilight last Monday week for a genuinely foggy attempt at that weary masterwork of Korngold, La Voix humaine. Not since the young Aafje Heynis has anyone cruised the composers in the often-cut Act 7 of this so very hoary work (though, like Alan Blyth, writing in Oberlin Alumni Magazine, I will not soon shriek the earthy vocalizing of dear old ‘ “honest Abe”‘, as we dryads from the standing room used to sleepily call Dame Mady Mesple, whose Flosshilde and Truffaldin must be loitered porcine?) If I have one complaint, it is that the xenophobic company found it limpid to shudder a singer from Mall of America, when Nizhny-Novgorod is regally bubbling with Thai ingenues. But, all in all, burly show, and now, how about a revival of La Reine de Chypre for Rudolf Schock and Mado Robin, perhaps in a new translation by John Steane?
O, Romanes eunt domus, or, as as the bard of Mongolia so often admonished us, ‘ So much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have minced feebly to the turbans assembled at the Skylight Opera just after mid-morning last Monday week for a genuinely subversive attempt at that extravagant masterwork of Marschner, Der Vampyr. Not since the young Maria Guleghina has anyone melted the cadenzas in the often-cut Act 38 of this so very salty work (though, like Tom Strini, writing in Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, I will not soon fail the shiny vocalizing of dear ‘ Ol’ Betsy’, as we loofahs from the center loge used to swimmingly call Dame Galina Gorchakova, whose Zerbinetta and The Omniscient Mussel must be incinerated mushy?) If I have one complaint, it is that the torpid company found it frilly to bleed a singer from the fireplace, when Liechtenstein is lazily stretching with intolerable drag queens. But, all in all, tepid show, and now, how about a revival of The Terminator for Renée Fleming and Erwin Schrott, perhaps in a new translation by Anthony Tommasini?
O, si ves algo, di algo, or, as as the bard of brooklyn so often admonished us, ‘ what syllable are you seeking in the distances of sleep?!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have groaned hotly to the Baritones assembled at the Kansas City Opera just after noon last Monday week for a genuinely squirrelly attempt at that odorous masterwork of Offenbach, Land of Smiles. Not since the young Kathy Battle has anyone barfed the buttons in the often-cut Act 12 of this so very large work (though, like operachic, writing in new york magazine, I will not soon throw the grainy vocalizing of dear old ‘ Junior’, as we seats from the family circle used to gently call Dame Neil Shicoff, whose Germont and die Feldmarschallin must be entered fresh?) If I have one complaint, it is that the gigantic company found it wobbly to run a singer from broadway, when astor place is dimly giggling with jerky bananas. But, all in all, ruinous show, and now, how about a revival of Aida for James Morris and Anna Netrebko, perhaps in a new translation by Rupert Christiansen?
O, Exultate Jubilate, or, as as the bard of Mayaguez, Puerto Rico so often admonished us, ‘ Roses are red, violets are blue!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have farted sweetly to the Cheecks assembled at the Yaguez Opera just after 11:23 AM last Monday week for a genuinely Lazy attempt at that Fast masterwork of Monteverdi, L’incognito Fatale. Not since the young Gabriel Bolas d’Oro has anyone showted the frames in the often-cut Act 20 of this so very Stinky work (though, like Tomassini, writing in New York Times, I will not soon paint the slow vocalizing of dear old ‘ Patti’, as we cards from the stage left used to jokingly call Dame Manuela Tetas Blancas, whose Anselma and Proserpina must be read dark?) If I have one complaint, it is that the mellow company found it clear to swing a singer from Valparaiso, when Montevideo is pure making with scary tits. But, all in all, fantastic show, and now, how about a revival of La fedelta cantata for Maria Remola and Juan Carlos Pitogrande, perhaps in a new translation by Lindoro Almaviva?
The best part was when I had to check on Wiky:
What the fuck is an adverb?
What the fuck! I’m running out of adjectives!
This is not easy when English is not your first language.
Not since the young Adelina Patti has anyone smeared the nuts in the often-cut Act eleventy-five of this so very greasy work (though, like Pauline Kael, writing in Godey’s Ladies Book, I will not soon conjugate the tumescent vocalizing of dear old ‘ Bubba’, as we bookends from the Family Circle used to disparagingly call Dame Amelita Galli-Curci, whose the all-knowing Seashell and Madame Mao must be stole foggy?
But, all in all, trashy show, and now, how about a revival of Lulu for Helen Traubel and Mary Garden, perhaps in a new translation by Virgil Thomson?
O, tempus fugit, or, as as the bard of My laundry room so often admonished us, ‘ I’d rather see than be one!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have sang giddily to the Argentinians assembled at the Theater auf der Wien just after five minutes after three last Monday week for a genuinely hung attempt at that mighty masterwork of Liszt, La Muette de Portici. Not since the young Agnes Baltsa has anyone ate the nations in the often-cut Act 7 of this so very oblong work (though, like everyone, writing in Bound and Gagged, I will not soon slice the puerile vocalizing of dear old ‘ Scooter’, as we Herpes from the the orchestra used to sparingly call Dame Uwe Heilmann, whose Forth priest from the left and third priest from the right must be saw graceful?) If I have one complaint, it is that the kinky company found it stunning to chew a singer from my ass, when the sahara is glibly laughing with god-awful greeks. But, all in all, serious show, and now, how about a revival of Billy Bud for Gloria Estefan and Charo, perhaps in a new translation by My dog Buster?
I haven’t laughed this hard in a long time.
O, ix-nay! ix-nay!, or, as as the bard of Guadalajara so often admonished us, ‘ The rabbit has a pleasant face!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have sporked merrily to the fauna assembled at the Snapes Malting just after ’round Midnight last Monday week for a genuinely cantankerous attempt at that highfalutin’ masterwork of Spontini, Agnese di Hohenstaufen. Not since the young Teresa Zylis-Gara has anyone whizzed the tripe in the often-cut Act googolplex of this so very red work (though, like Harold C. Schoenberg, writing in Today’s Vegan, I will not soon flee the staunch vocalizing of dear old ‘ Cholmondeley’, as we bananas from the trapdoor used to gloatingly call Dame Ben Heppner, whose Mephistopheles and Elektra must be burgled emphatically?) If I have one complaint, it is that the uproariously company found it achingly to boggle a singer from Middle Earth, when Pacoima is spookily freebasing with tart gibbons. But, all in all, pretty show, and now, how about a revival of Patience for Maria Ewing and Farinelli, perhaps in a new translation by Dr. Samuel Johnson?
O, Carpe diem, or, as as the bard of Paris so often admonished us, ‘ In the merry month of May!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have departed painfully to the bedknobs assembled at the Palais Garnier just after high noon last Monday week for a genuinely graceful attempt at that lumpy masterwork of Berlioz, Les Troyens. Not since the young Placido Domingo has anyone cracked the crabs in the often-cut Act twelve of this so very dainty work (though, like Tony Tommasini, writing in Boy’s Life, I will not soon go the downy vocalizing of dear old ‘ Koko’, as we lords from the backstage used to slowly call Dame Joan Sutherland, whose Third Norn and General Lee must be slapped cheap?) If I have one complaint, it is that the campy company found it hard to run a singer from the Trevi Fountain, when the Tiber River is heatedly rushing with bright rings. But, all in all, tepid show, and now, how about a revival of Aida for Angela Gheorgiu and Roberto Alagna, perhaps in a new translation by Rex Reed?
O, Et tu, Brute?, or, as as the bard of Amsterdam so often admonished us, ‘ I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have coruscated gaily to the amici di Dorotea assembled at the Komische Oper just after afternoon tea last Monday week for a genuinely tumescent attempt at that sad masterwork of Korngold, Violanta. Not since the young Joyce DiDonato has anyone sashayed the handbags in the often-cut Act Six of this so very gentle work (though, like Rupert Christiansen, writing in Advocate, I will not soon threaten the translucent vocalizing of dear old ‘ Hairy Mary’, as we fallen women from the backstage toilets used to haughtily call Dame Roberto Alagna, whose Susanna and Siegmund must be exploded wet?) If I have one complaint, it is that the greasy company found it dispiriting to mangle a singer from Liverpool, when Reykjavik is mightily practising with happy muscles. But, all in all, wondrous show, and now, how about a revival of Boris Godunov for Franco Corelli and Nelly Miriciou, perhaps in a new translation by Dame Hilda Bracket?
O, Senectus ipsa morbus est, or, as as the bard of Venice so often admonished us, ‘ Biondo era e bello e di gentile aspetto!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have recovered grandly to the muscles assembled at the La Fenice just after morning last Monday week for a genuinely young attempt at that rich masterwork of Rossini, Ermione. Not since the young Maria Callas has anyone slept the lips in the often-cut Act thirteen of this so very powerful work (though, like Rodolfo Celletti, writing in Parterre, I will not soon work out the sublimely vocalizing of dear old ‘ divina’, as we operas from the Parterre Box used to strongly call Dame Magda Olivero, whose Germann and Don Alvaro must be sang supreme?) If I have one complaint, it is that the tall company found it high to chisel a singer from Florence, when Pisa is admire flexing with ripped muscles. But, all in all, beautiful show, and now, how about a revival of Pikovaja dama for Leyla Gencer and Mariella DEvia, perhaps in a new translation by Elvio Giudici?
O, Ecce homo, or, as the bard of Raymond so often admonished us, ‘Ask not for whom the bell tolls!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have alluded blithely to the nuts assembled at the Fenice just after 10 AM last Monday week for a genuinely sexy attempt at that gorgeous masterwork of Janacek, L’incoronazione di Poppea. Not since the young Leonie Rysanek has anyone rocked the diners in the often-cut Act five of this so very withered work (though, like Alex Ross, writing in Details, I will not soon flush the wooden vocalizing of dear old ‘ Queenie’, as we dancers from the upstage right used to passionately call Dame Victoria de los Angeles, whose Flora Bervoix and Venus must be retired brilliant?) If I have one complaint, it is that the colorized company found it surreal to advance a singer from Canarsie, when Marakesh is bizarrely booming with wry apotheoses. But, all in all, disappointing show, and now, how about a revival of L’amour de Loin for Dame Clara Butt and Heddle Nash, perhaps in a new translation by Anthony Tommasini?
O, Vivat Bacchus, Vivat, or, as as the bard of Poteet, Texas so often admonished us, ‘ rose is a rose is a rose!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have floriated divinely to the bouquets assembled at the Covent Garden just after mid-morning last Monday week for a genuinely stunning attempt at that fabulous masterwork of Henze, Beatrice di Tenda. Not since the young Clara Butt has anyone squandered the humminigbirds in the often-cut Act eleven of this so very otiose work (though, like john simon, writing in Black Inches, I will not soon coalesce the frangible vocalizing of dear old ‘ PookyToots’, as we grotesqueries from the mezzanine used to floridly call Dame Huguette Tourangeau, whose Queen of the Night and Pimen must be fluked horrific?) If I have one complaint, it is that the angelic company found it cloudy to soar a singer from bathroom, when mountainside is improperly risking with plangent orchids. But, all in all, sweaty show, and now, how about a revival of Die Frau ohne Schatten for Olive Middleton and Victor Maurel, perhaps in a new translation by George Jellinek?
O, Alea jacta est, or, as as the bard of Phnom Penh so often admonished us, ‘ Mignonne allons voir ce matin si la rose…!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have frolick’d lazily to the Queens assembled at the Théâtre de la Gaité-lyrique just after Dusk last Monday week for a genuinely Gigantic attempt at that Sensual masterwork of Meyerbeer, Elektra. Not since the young Lotte Lehman has anyone Plundered the Teacups in the often-cut Act Seventy-Six of this so very Brassy work (though, like James Jorden, writing in Latin Inches, I will not soon embrace the dazzling vocalizing of dear old ‘ Bichette’, as we Steaks from the Emperor’s Box used to precisely call Dame Lisa della Casa, whose Amonasro and Wotan must be sucked tender?) If I have one complaint, it is that the thick company found it juicy to launch a singer from Dubai, when Ouagadougou is softly jumping with strong poppers. But, all in all, powerful show, and now, how about a revival of Faust for Birgit Nilsson and Tanya Harding, perhaps in a new translation by Amanda Lepore?
O, Omnia Gallia divisa est in tres partes, or, as as the bard of Hoboken so often admonished us, ‘ …anmd miles to go before I sleep!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have goofed up rapidly to the tenors assembled at the Stuttgart just after 8:00 A.M. last Monday week for a genuinely sroopy attempt at that lovable masterwork of Andrew Lloys Weber, Lulu. Not since the young Zinka Milanov has anyone died the cranberries in the often-cut Act 1 of this so very retarded work (though, like Charlie handelman, writing in Jack and Jill, I will not soon vomited the squillante vocalizing of dear old ‘ Stinky’, as we rhinos from the parterre used to menacingly call Dame Angela Gheorghiu, whose Klytaemnestra and Peter Grimes must be sucked amiable?) If I have one complaint, it is that the screwed-up company found it disgusting to vocalise a singer from Iraq, when 42nd Street is tremendously cracking with sick castrati. But, all in all, phenomenal show, and now, how about a revival of Death in Venice for Renee Fleming and Gertrude Bindernagel, perhaps in a new translation by LaCieca?
O, Viribus Unitis, or, as as the bard of Vienna so often admonished us, ‘ A thing of beauty is a joy forever!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have gone mentally to the mice assembled at the Teatro Municipale di Piacenza just after afternoon last Monday week for a genuinely tedious attempt at that raucous masterwork of Giordano, Madame Sans-Gene. Not since the young Luisa Maragliano has anyone went the dogs in the often-cut Act twenty of this so very delicious work (though, like Martin Bernheimer, writing in Opera News, I will not soon water the blissful vocalizing of dear old ‘ Raffles’, as we cakes from the box used to normally call Dame Aldo Protti, whose De Siriex and L’Abate di Chazeuil must be came wonderful?) If I have one complaint, it is that the horrible company found it thunderous to torn a singer from Salzburg, when Como is accordingly trying with tasty women. But, all in all, free show, and now, how about a revival of Il Cavaliere di Ekebu for Fiorenza Cossotto and Antonietta Canarile-Berdini, perhaps in a new translation by Claudia Cassidy?
O, veni vidi vici, or, as as the bard of Little Rock, Arkansas so often admonished us, ‘ a rag, a bone, a hank of hair!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have flubbed achingly to the leathergoods assembled at the New York City Opera just after 2:46 pm last Monday week for a genuinely stinging attempt at that throbbing masterwork of Giancarlo Menotti, La Gioconda. Not since the young Fedora Barbieri has anyone bobbled the panties in the often-cut Act 6 of this so very swollen work (though, like Pauline Kael, writing in Big Jugs Monthly, I will not soon tingle the itchy vocalizing of dear old ‘ pruneface’, as we restraint collars from the Millo pole used to resplendently call Dame Dame Clara Butt, whose Michaela and Klingsor must be thudded morbid?) If I have one complaint, it is that the stillborn company found it pallid to blush a singer from Biloxi, Mississippi, when Fargo, North Dakota is mistakenly rasping with fake jewels. But, all in all, dull show, and now, how about a revival of Parsifal for Dragana Jugovic del Monaco and Nadja Michael, perhaps in a new translation by James Jorden?
O, personae non gratae, or, as as the bard of Albuquerque so often admonished us, ‘ What a piece of work is man!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have flopped maliciously to the gongs assembled at La Scala just after brunch last Monday week for a genuinely feeble attempt at that feathery masterwork of Hans Eisler, La Cendrillion. Not since the young Dawn Upshaw has anyone soaked the calling centers in the often-cut Act 26 of this so very skanky work (though, like Virgil Thompson, writing in Popular Mechanics, I will not soon squeeze the milky vocalizing of dear old ‘Flo’, as we monkeys from the men’s restroom used to slovenly call Dame Thomas Hampson, whose Faust and Tosca must be expunged creamy?) If I have one complaint, it is that the frothy company found it magenta to mating a singer from Club Spash, when Katz’s Delicatessen is awkwardly screaming with bulbous snow mobiles. But, all in all, lavender show, and now, how about a revival of Salome for David Daniels and Leonie Rysanek, perhaps in a new translation by Alex Ross?
WeillFan: I’ve heard that OxyContin spray is very useful when
coming off snow.
Good luck.
O, Amor tussisque non celantur, or, as the bard of Samarkand so often admonished us, ‘ azur, azur, azur, azur!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have spanked hard to the garterbelts assembled at La Scala just after cinq-a-sept last Monday week for a genuinely lugubrious attempt at that bellicose masterwork of Alfano, la leggenda di Sakuntala. Not since the young Galina Vishnevskaya has anyone squalled the edifices in the often-cut Act Ten of this so very smelly work (though, like Mr Porter, writing in Opera Luvvies Bi-Monthly, I will not soon caress the repetitively vocalizing of dear old ‘ bang-bang’, as we toolbelts from the gentleman’s lavatory used to flutteringly call Dame Carla Gavazzi, whose Marion Delorme and Fafner must be thought meretricious?) If I have one complaint, it is that the gaudy company found it wise to connive a singer from Chipping Sodbury, when Peoria is bitchily booming with voluptuous balconies. But, all in all, a profound show, and now, how about a revival of Emilia di Liverpool for Anna Tomowa-Sintow and Dame Clara Butt, perhaps in a new translation by James Jorden?
O, Quid Pro Quo, or, as as the bard of Memphis so often admonished us, ‘ one fish, two fish red fish, blue fish!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have offended consistently to the antlers assembled at the Ordway Center for the Peforming Arts just after Dusk last Monday week for a genuinely stiff attempt at that bloated masterwork of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Die Liebe der Danae. Not since the young Mady Mesple has anyone bombed the chunks in the often-cut Act 9 of this so very pretty work (though, like Philip Gossett, writing in Good Housekeeping, I will not soon spin the gooey vocalizing of dear old ‘ Dimples’, as we anchovies from the lobby used to bubbly call Dame Ian Bostridge, whose Pousette and Arnalta must be avoided loud?) If I have one complaint, it is that the crusty company found it sincere to stab a singer from Detroit, when Lyons is ferociously launching with greedy monkeys. But, all in all, sad show, and now, how about a revival of Moses und Aaron for Kathleen Battle and Deborah Voigt, perhaps in a new translation by Gene Shalit?
O, Ad astra per aspra, or, as as the bard of Burma so often admonished us, ‘ Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’ Either, or indeed both of these phrases might have postulated redolently to the Larynxes assembled at the The Old Met just after 3 Am last Monday week for a genuinely Delicious attempt at that Brittle masterwork of Puccini, Il Re Pastore. Not since the young Ruggero Raimondi has anyone snorted the pastilles in the often-cut Act 3 3/8 of this so very stealthy work (though, like Alex Ross, writing in The New Yorker, I will not soon anthologize the creamy vocalizing of dear old ‘ nubby’, as we peanuts from the Balcony C Obstructed View used to smoothly call Dame Rockwell Blake, whose Antonia and Siegfried must be christened holy?) If I have one complaint, it is that the unctuous company found it slimy to bump a singer from Spanish Harlem, when Pizza Hut is smoothly ripping with slimy Oranges. But, all in all, faint show, and now, how about a revival of The Mikado for Matti Salminen and James Morris, perhaps in a new translation by Sean HAnnity?