Sir Suchalot Poem by Paul Wilson

In all the corners of the world
Where'er the knightly banner furled
Was surely never such a clot
As Hadrian, Sir Suchalot.
Born in poverty and woe
Stupid, mischievous and slow
Set out into the world to fight
For what is wrong, ‘gainst what is right.

Some manner he had learnt at home
Observing dogs around a bone
But for the rest he found him scant
In knowledge of ‘comportement'.
E'en so, our hero, not dissuaded
Strutted, poséd, and paraded
Betook him forth to win renown
By ‘cut and thrust', and ‘bearing down'.

What learnt by ancient writ to say
Was not indeed his chosen way
At first, a five-pound note or something
Could save his victim from a thumping.
But then he got more exigent
Believing himself heaven-sent
And set his mind henceforth to thwart
The noble teachings of the heart.

With high diligence he would seek
- not for him the five-day week!
To bring to light the unjust way
And when the sun's departing ray
Brought news of night and rest from cares
His vigil kept in rocky lairs
Up to the God of strength and might
He prayed to aid his lonely fight.

No devious ploy escaped his wrath
And no apology enough
To save the culprit from the rage
Of Hadrian, bold knight and sage
To ‘scape the due there means was not
Of Hadrian, Sir Suchalot.

So with his helmet on his head
And bells upon his toes
From hall to hall he goes
In search of knightly honour brightly
Visited upon his foes
Where'er the wicked baron dwells
In concupiscent gain ill-got
And tho' it were, it still were not
If not for gallant Suchalot.

The lady kept in parlous state
And sobbing now with sad lament -
Arrives at last her man of fate
Or whate'er he chose to represent
And even if a little late
(a hundred years at five per cent)
at least not never; a fairish rate
came Hadrian, the Beneficent.

And so our Roman de la Rose
Most certainly must not neglect
To show in him the most perfect
Avenger of the righteous cause -
For who is not a knight at heart,
In principle, a Britomart?

Sir Thurstenred, Sir Battlereigh
Grand Horwen of the Wold
And all the knights that ever were
Since chivalry was old
The boldest of the bold!
King Arthur and his lady fair
The knights of the table round
Together all are gathered there
Where final rest is found
Deep beneath the ground!
But to Hadrian, Sir Suchalot
Tho' such a lot there be
No final rest, but constant quest
Through all eternity.

For what is good in chivalry
If man's estate is as a flea?
What matter those annals of wonder?
The moving currents of the sea
Propelled by underplunging thunder
Sure conceal the moon's bright plunder
He's great that opens it asunder
And finds what holds the flooded ley!
And so the knightly quest has ended
Is not soft sift in flesh suspended?
He goes in search of paradise
Are not those pearls that were his eyes?