Here Sits Sweden
In commemoration of that great moral triumph, when feminists in Stockholm removed the urinals from the boys’ rooms in the schools, so that the boys would have to sit to take a leak, rather than stand and assume the role of male domination.
Live no more where swine may feed in!
Man at last has found his Eden
On the empty slopes of Sweden.
Call us not a land of wafflers!
We that bred the great Adolphus
Once built Saabs, and lady golfers.
We can boast our share of honors:
Volvos haul in lots of kroners,
And Bjorn Borg beat Yimmy Connors.
Neither Orthodox nor Arian,
Our church-state is prelapsarian,
Tenderly totalitarian.
But we’re kind: when someone sneezes,
You may mention “God” or “Jesus.”
That’s a gospel that will please us.
Our blest land let none disparage,
Where first comes the baby carriage—
If at all—without a marriage.
Let the praise be hyperbolic!
Here no babies wake with colic;
Men are free, and alcoholic.
Still some serpent hates our being
Gleeful in our glogg and skiing:
He tempts boys to stand while peeing!
Should some Swedish Rip Van Winkle
Wake in Stockholm, all a-wrinkle,
Still he’d have to sit to tinkle.
So he sits, obeys our rule or he
Finds how fast we punish foolery—
Locking up his family joolery!
We’ll reward him when he waxes
Pliant, and at last relaxes:
Down he goes, and up his taxes.
Let none think our ways are dotty.
Man, we find, learns to be naughty
Once he stands to use the potty.
Soon as he has doffed the diaper
For his pants and paper wiper,
He inclines to play the viper.
Little Lars must be a Viking,
Slashing, slaying, burning, striking—
Standing up is to his liking.
Lest his stabbing be a menace,
Slaying gals at golf and tennis,
Let him not know where his pen is.
Fascists sure will sneer and snicker—
Prudence leaves no room to dicker,
Turning pojkar into flickor.
When the Danish despot martyred
Swedes upon his crowning, slaughtered
As their slavish nation tottered,
Standing, Vasa came attacking,
Sent the king and princes packing!
“God’s my shepherd, I’m not lacking!”
Said that bold lad Martin Luther,
Caught unbuttoned by his mother,
“Here I stand, I can no other!”
Standing, as a Christian oughter,
He dispensed his holy water,
Simul justus et peccator.
Upright, he affirmed with brio
What tremendous payment we owe
Unto God, and not Pope Leo.
He sought freedom, reformation—
Urged his land in indignation,
“You’re no ruin! You’re a nation!”
When the birds of war were landing
On the Polish plains, commanding
Came the brave Gustavus, standing.
There he fell, there he was sainted.
Heroes often are but painted,
But not he—he never fainted.
See the peril of such power!
We’ve cut short the manly shower.
This is Sweden’s finest hour.
Now all’s peace and—what the—dammit,
Who’s set fire to—door’s locked—ram it!
Oh, it’s only you, Mohammed.
What — you say you’ve mugged a parson?
Torched his chapel? Mayhem, arson?
Round up all the men named Larsen.
Never mind our thoughtless kidding.
Pretty please to do our bidding;
If you don’t we’ll take it—sitting.