| The Dutchman’s not the kind of man
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| To keep his thumb jammed in the dam
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| That holds his dreams in,
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| But that’s a secret that only Margaret knows.
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| When Amsterdam is golden in the morning,
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| Margaret brings him breakfast,
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| She believes him.
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| He thinks the tulips bloom beneath the snow.
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| He’s mad as he can be, but Margaret only sees that sometimes,
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| Sometimes she sees her unborn children in his eyes.
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| Let us go to the banks of the ocean
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| Where the walls rise above the Zuider Zee.
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| Long ago, I used to be a young man
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| But dear Margaret remembers that for me.
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| The Dutchman still wears wooden shoes,
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| His cap and coat are patched with the love
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| That Margaret sewed there.
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| Sometimes he thinks he’s still in Rotterdam.
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| He watches the tug-boats down canals
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| And calls out to them when he thinks he knows the Captain.
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| Till Margaret comes
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| To take him home again
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| Through unforgiving streets that trip him, though she holds his arm,
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| Sometimes he thinks he’s alone and he calls her name.
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| Let us go to the banks of the ocean
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| Where the walls rise above the Zuiderzee.
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| Long ago, I used to be a young man
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| But dear Margaret remembers that for me.
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| The windmills whirl the winter in She winds his muffler tighter
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| And they sit in the kitchen.
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| Some tea with whiskey keeps away the dew.
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| He sees her for a moment, calls her name,
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| She makes his bed up singing some old love song,
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| She learned it when the tune was very new.
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| He hums a line or two, they hum together in the dark.
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| The Dutchman falls asleep and Margaret blows the candle out.
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| Let us go to the banks of the ocean
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| Where the walls rise above the Zuiderzee.
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| Long ago, I used to be a young man
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| But dear Margaret remembers that for me. |