In the ring, the bad professor of boxing stood tall,
Claimed he could teach his opponent, teach him all,
But the punches rained down, an unforgiving shower,
Francis N’Gannou fists, an unstoppable power,
The boastful words silenced by the final bell’s call.
He bragged of his skills, his superior might,
But Francis N’Gannou was a fearsome sight,
He proved that talk alone would not win the day,
As the bad professor’s arrogance led him astray,
His bravado crumbled in the brutal fight.
In the squared circle, a rigged contest began,
But N’Gannou’s spirit won the hearts of every fan,
He danced and weaved, his fists like art,
Bumping and beautifying the professor’s face, a work of martial heart,
The bad professor’s jaw left with a painful tan.
A left hand from N’Gannou sent the professor reeling,
The crowd gasped in awe, the sensation was thrilling,
The bad professor crumbled, his pride cast aside,
In the wake of N’Gannou’s punches, there was no place to hide,
A lesson learned in the ring, a harsh healing.
The bad professor of boxing, once so full of grace,
Had met his match in N’Gannou, in that sacred space,
No more boasts, no emptier words to be spoken,
For the professor’s silence, his spirit forever broken,
In the ring, he found his rightful place.
