Polish curative curtains?

I walk up and down,
and finally crown the old battalion. they canter off into the forest.
Retrieve the stream's hairpiece.
Two piece for the toupee,
ransom for a handsome work of furry art.
i pull out the slowly turning burlap sack,
the magical latch firmly embedded in its unworthy furls,
fling it in an instant on the unsuspecting burly-cavalry (who in the meanwhile are growling and rearing their horses up a foot or two for no apparent reason)
i scream, "I, your benefactor,
swindled near a windmill,
clog-Baron of the world i be,
story of old I claim for my own grown oats."
They bow, clown car emerges from the forest, a highly tanned Cher steps out.
"Off with it."
and everything vanishes into thin air,
but for the toupee and me.
Stuck together in lovely oblivion.