Wait until the storm is over. . .
Whew! We're not all floaters
On Dutch-grown polder.

I wish Moses here had fled.
He parted the sea that's Red.
He'd keep us from watershed;
If the dyke should break, we're dead!

It would be over
For this Dutch-grown polder,
Would be over
For this sub-"0"* polder.

Dutch,
Dutch,
Dutch build land up.
Much,
Much,
Much to keep up.
The North Sea halts.
Prevent harm.

[cracking sound, followed by water leaking]

Things are grave on the Dutch-grown polder. . .
A levee with hollow hole burps.
A done-for polder.

Too late for dirt to be shlepped;
'monst the children, up one stepped--
"Hans Brinker saved us!" we wept.

It's not all over
On this Dutch-grown polder!
Not all over.
Hans' finger gets colder.

[exultant cheering]

"I am cold, sir.
Now I've saved the polder,
May I leave this hole, sir?"

"No! Keep holdin',
Says the mayor, who's scoldin'.

Hans, much older,
Still protects the polder.

Hans croaks, molders,
But bone's still the holder
And keeps dry the polder.


*below sea level