Puff! Puff! Puff and more puffs! As with previous occasions, as if by magic the First Lady appeared and covered Donald’s blushes with a kilt as Göbeklitepe burst into song and dance Harran-Celt style complete with pipes and drums…

‘I just down from the Isle of Skye
I’m no very big but I’m awful shy
All the lassies shout as I walk by,
“Donald, where’s your troosers?”

Let the wind blow high and the wind blow low
Through the streets in my kilt I go
All the lassies cry, “Hello!
Donald, where’s your troosers?”

I went to a fancy ball
It was slippery in the hall
I was afeared that I may fall
Because I nay had on troosers

I went down to London town
To have a little fun in the underground
All the Ladies turned their heads around, saying,
“Donald, where’s your troosers?”

The lassies love me every one
You canna put the breeks on a highland man, saying,
“Donald, where’s your troosers?”

“I know I travel in a magic infinity bubble,” said Ayşe, “… but, this is surreally ridiculous.”

“It’s great!” declared Arther, “it’s Göbeklitepe! Go with the flow! Love over fear quantum stuff! Dance, then, wherever you may be!”

You had to be there I guess.

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