A Poem by a Ship's Cook

Archive Entry

My Dad’s Windmills

By: Henry Thule, Self-Proclaimed Poet Laureate of New Amsterdam

In the shade of this giant was where the best mushrooms grew,
Alone in my tower, waves of wind blew
The king sent me here for spices that would make my stew sing
But I missed the sight of barley, rye and the whooshing of white wings
The ocean was too blue and my stomach too fragile
Till I landed on this exotic green isle
The girls looked very sweet, and I tried to seduce one or two,
But here there is no giant, no shade, no mushroom, and no stew.