People think that Stockholm is a dull but clean city,
Full of gorgeous six foot six blondes and Bjorns,
With lakes and islands and lots of good taste artifacts to buy
If you don't mind taking out a mortage to go shopping.
But there is another side to this Swedish city:
Believe me, I know, I was there quite recently
And I have seen it in all its primaeval Nordic terror.
I was sitting in the bar of the famous Grand Hotel,
Wondering if I could afford another glass of tapwater,
With my dear cousin Algernon, a fat and slightly smelly man,
When a gang of drunken Viking-helmet[t]ed warriors,
Sky-high on fresh air and too many mixed saunas,
Rushed in off the street, dragged him off his stool
And hurled him through an inch-thick plate glass window
Which rather spoiled his hair-do, I regret to announce.
The vicious Nordic swine left him lying there in the hotel lobby,
His mighty skull trepanned and his greasy wig dislodged,
[oh dear, I noticed his brain cells oozing on the floor].
And why? Was it just because he badly needed a bath?
[admittedly the staff had to disinfect the carpet afterwards,
even having the temerity to ask me to pay the drycleaning bill].
Dear God, I doubt Stockholm is due for a re-visit in the future
Even if I am offered a cut-price fare on lovely Ryanair.
Honorable mention
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