Atop the head of fellow classmate Don
Is rooted quite a large anemone.
Though matted black instead of having shone
It still would be the Hilton of the sea.
The strands, a matrix, ever overlap
And every wisp a deftly honèd skill.
To add another feather to his Cap
Would surely be the greatest overkill.
Dimensional expansion of the brain
Undoubtedly is already achieved,
His wisdom interwoven in the grain,
His style only shunned by the naive.
So this, the legend told of Don the Great
Leaves only hipsters perm-inclined irate.