The professor meets his match
for Colin and Mary Duckworth’s 40th wedding anniversary
On the day the Professor got married
every actress and deb was distressed
(for although he was not quite a prof yet
it was safe to assume that they’d guessed)
and he’d wed—not a princess or duchess
whose name was in Debrett’s list,
but of all things, well, could you get much less?—
a trainee nutritionist!
But it mattered not how they all muttered
(they gave it six months at the most)
for he knew how his bread was best buttered
as his best man proposed the toast.
He was bold, he was willing to risk it—
she was hot (Gas Mark 5, bottom shelf)—
he was sure that she just took the biscuit,
and she knew what she kneaded herself.
Any relative pique was forgotten—
he had passed the aunt acid test—
and she egged him on, well, something rotten
when she told him which flours she liked best.
But in those days they did things quite proper
(there was none of this living in sin)
so as soon as they could they were married
when the vicar could vitamin.
His judgment’s now long vindicated
and her excellent taste in a man
shows a dish is much better created
slow cooked—not a flash in the pan.
And it has to be said both were lusty
and things did go on after dark,
and though their first efforts went Rusty
they eventually made their Mark.
Some may say that ten years would be plenty,
fifteen at the very outside,
and of course any pair who reach twenty
could take World War III in their stride.
You might think you’d get shirty at thirty
but there’s no sign of stopping them yet:
will the couple who’s naughty at forty
still be nifty at fifty? You bet!
Written for the anniversary on January 2nd, 1994.