A sort of Battle of Hastings

A man walked past me today,
as I sat reading in the window of a coffee shop.
He wore a black metal mesh wastebasket atop his head,
seemingly determined to look like a Norman knight.
Soon, I was imagining cadres of knights, storming
up the streets, swords flailing, scabbards dusty,
rusting chain-mail clink-clinking over the pavement,
darting through passing traffic as they
engage in duels upon horses and on foot, swinging
mighty blades in graceful arcs down upon the neck
of some sworn enemy they've pinned down on the hood of
a Toyota Celica. Sweat drips from the foreheads
of squires as they drag broadswords, shields,
morningstars, javelins, crossbows, sheathes of arrows,
maces and battle-axes up the sidewalk,
hunched over, pausing and gasping pathetically
for breath at each corner, unsure which of the other
squires to trust, and which to stab,
so exhausted they come cautiously to truces
amidst the dread of the looming safe-crossing signal...

Nonetheless, this does not answer the central question:
Why would this man walk about with a wastebasket on his head?
To incite questions? To incite a furor over art?
No. I will not wonder. I will not dignify his smutty arrogance
with even a thought.