I saw a steaming pot of coffee high up in the sky;
My throat was parched, my eyes were dull; I could not pass on by.
“Välkommen till Lindström” was painted on its pot.
A kind and fitting welcome for a thirsting Tomte, I thought.

But how to reach the blessed brew, so high above the ground?
And could I reach it with a goat, or must he stay earth-bound?
My companion, nimble, climbed with me until the clouds grew thin.
At last we reached the coffee pot and the steaming brew therein.

It’s hard to pour a coffee pot the size of a small house,
Or to dip a cup into its spout without getting doused.
But I won’t give up while liquid gold is brewing by the ton.
There’s plenty here to go around. Coffee, anyone?

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