Black Donald, indiscrete,
Mad old man in the torn black suit,
Crossed the cobbled and angled street
Like somebody followed in persuit.

All the while he drew stares to his oblong feet.

Angled, Don cut a different route,
Was stumbled by his stiltish cleat,
Let out a goat-like, low-pitched hoot,
And, humbled, bid a hasty retreat.