The Dutchman
Author: Michael Smith

The Dutchman's not the kind of man to keep his thumb jammed in the dam
that hold his dreams in
but that's a secret only Margaret knows
when Amsterdam is golden in the morning Margret brings him breakfast
she believes him
he thinks the tulips bloom beneath the snow
he's mad as he can be, but Margaret only see that sometimes
sometimes she sees her unborn children in his eyes

let us go to the banks of the ocean
where the wall rise above the Zeider Zee
long ago, I used to be a young man
and dear Margaret remembers that for me

the Dutchman still wears wooden shoes
his cap and coat are patched with love that Margaret sewn in
sometimes he thinks he's still in Rotterdam
he watches tugboats down canals
and calls out to them when he thinks he knows the captain
and Margaret comes to take him home again
through unforgiving streets that trip him though she holds his arm
sometimes he thinks that he's alone and calls her name

the windmills whirl the winter in, she winds his muffler tighter
they sit in the kitchen
some tea with whiskey keeps away the dew
he sees her for a moment, calls her name, she makes his bed up
singing some old love somg
she learned it when the tune was very new
she hums a line or two, they hum together in the night
the Dutchman falls asleep and Margater blows the candle out