‘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.