Here’s… Johan!

While reading a book in midwinter,

Alone in the meadows that weave

Their rich and English tapestry

I felt a tugging at my sleeve.

My little daughter, Alice,

Was urging me to go

And meet the man who stood at the door,

So I went and said, “Hello?”

“Hello,” he said and smiled at me

And Alice smiled at him.

”I’m calling from IKEA,” he said,

“To assemble your homemade gym.”

Well, everyone knows IKEA,

The Swedish furniture mart,

That sell you things you put together

Which promptly fall apart.

“I didn’t order a gym,” I said,

“I know,” the man replied.

“But I have to use your lavatory

“So kindly step aside.”

He ran upstairs with frightful speed

And then we heard the chain

And then he called out, “I love your lav!

“I must come here again.”

When he came down the stairs I asked

Him what gave him the notion

Of impersonating an IKEA salesman

Simply to pass a motion.

He said that being resourceful

Was a feature of the Swedes

And that he stopped at nothing

To satisfy his needs.

While reading my book that evening,

I say “reading” but I’m more of a browser,

I felt my spaniel, Biffo,

Tugging at my trouser.

The man at the door informed me

That he came from North Korea

And was anxious to use my privy

On account of his diarrhoea.

Since then we’ve had Iranians,

Canadians, Greeks and Poles.

I’m running out of patience,

Not to mention toilet rolls.

I’m now the first port of call,

The house that they all choose

To do their Number Ones in

If not their Number Twos.

You’ve got to hand it to the Swedes

For impudence, I thought.

They may not be the tallest tribe

But they never get caught short.