To The Fro

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.