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‘You could see it as a triumph of hope

over experience,’ the best man said.

‘He has hanged himself twice with his own rope

and he is lying in his own made bed.

To lose a wife was careless, but two…!

Third time lucky is what we wish for him.

To pull this latest one is quite a coup.’

Everyone was laughing, but the bride, grim,

brushed her hair from the tattoo on her neck:

Nil Desperandum – she had just had it done.

The sheepish groom thought, ‘I really must check

whom he quoted – Oscar Wilde, Dr Johnson?’

‘Sperm in alium,’ the cynics might say

when she posts her wedding gown on E-Bay.