On a tangled tide of orange curls you are carried further and further from the mournful voice until it can be heard no more. Meanwhile you have been struggling to free yourself, and not with much success. No sooner have you freed your legs from the enraveling ringlets, than you find your arms enveloped by them. Eventually the cable-cutters themselves become tangled in the mass of hair, leaving you defenceless. You are engulfed by the shaggy mass that surrounds you, helpless to prevent Donald's hair from taking over the world. Fin.