Professor Washing-up sponge,
The soap dish is his bed.
A rough, rectangular, softie
Extruded up through Z.

His favourite teaching axis.
His theory always proves;
Engaging greasy elbows
Can tackle all the grooves.

Just a kitchen sink
To the likes of you and I.
But a stainless world of seasons
To a scholars well-trained eye.

Catching him in lessons
Means rising with the sun.
If you see his moustache moving
Then his lecture’s just begun.

To light green pads in cellophane,
His discourse facing south,
Is all about which soap to use
For foaming at the mouth.

When time to turn the taps on
Spare a thought for him.
A little less is always more
Another vote for Vim.

‘But when it comes down to it
He’s just a wizened cleaner.’
Believe it if you must
(it’s a common Misdemeanour.)

A cheery three, applauded rounds
Citations he is worthy.
Imagining what stains he cures
Can make your legs go curvy.

Just try to put an ending
To this hero if you dare.
His teachings go before us
As froth is to the air.

The nuance carries on
Though failing in his age.
Another generation
Is applying to be sage.

Professor washing-up sponge
Which version are we on?
He always seems the same
Though he’s never really gone.