Like Gustav Holst, you’re Swedish by descent
and yet, so English that the ‘Q’ word’s used,
you’ve come to symbolise a deep content,
you’re warm and homely, yet we are confused,
since running you requires such quantities
of cash, our love can lead us to resent
Like many Swedes you’re typically blonde,
and like a Viking, often battle scarred,
you’re one of us, and so we’ve grown quite fond
of droning on about your faults, you’re tarred
and grimed with built up carbon, and you’re aged
with freckles, speckled brown. You don’t respond.
You stay as silent as a got-at spouse,
and do your job as you see fit and persevere.
You are the central figure in the country house,
imperfect, comforting, you draw us near,
and yet you’re not entirely dependable,
and using you requires a certain nous.