Sully

To Sully

In the quiet lane of Brixton’s maze,
There lives a man called Sully, or so the locals say.
His beard is neat like a well‑trimmed hedge,
But in his eyes a storm, a fleeting surge of edge.

He walks the park in autumn’s amber light,
With a shop boy’s patience, lending money, lending might.
At the corner stall, a crumpet in steam,
His laugh fills the air – a sound like a bright dream.

Then morning comes, the university’s glow,
Professor Sully weighs fact as the students grow.
He speaks in facts, a sceptic, a skeptic!
Yet, on the fringe, he finds a humouristic trick.

A lover of football, crisp and black,
Watching the Bees play in that ritual back‑tracking track.
“Ah!” he exclaims, “the net’s a clear pane,
Dismiss the flack, for the ball remains!”

One evening, the trio of university mates,
Drank a pint in the pub where the steins levitate.
They laughed about “sullying the rule” – a phrase so sly,
"Cheating," they coaxed, “lets the game fly.”

Sully has no blood to taint or stain,
Yet he’s known to be the one deftly “stain” the brain.
He rakes the news, reading iron‑clad.
In so much charades, a man who’s oh dear!

Some say the Thames, the river’s blue,
Cleans the streets from light to gloomy hue.
Sully walks the barrow under the fountain’s glow,
His encounter remains – the misty aura.

But they all know he’s set an example,
That "Sully" the surname cuts the seam of simple.
He doesn’t sully ruin reputations,
But writes the story for the next laurel.

So to Sully – a man prideful and gentle,
With a compass and honour step that is tributary.
Take heart, British soul, pick up the torch –
The world needs a lad with a ladylike march.