Canal Strut
High in the tower where the grim shadows lurk, A weary detective looks down on his work. He pulls up the wool of his belted trench coat, As brassy horns swell on a soaring high note. He draws a slow breath, lights a slender cigar, And shifts the cold gear of his boxy DAF car. The grey morning shatters on silver wheel spokes, Past shifting dark figures and dock-working folks.
The canal wakes to life in a shimmer of jade, Where neon light dances in pale masquerade. A heavy pulse echoes along the wet street, As slick cobblestones catch the rhythm of feet. Bright silhouettes leap then dissolve in the grey, An electric chill waking the cold city day.
The organ-box gleams with aggressive old gold, As manic cogs turn and the music is rolled. Stiff wooden athletes jerk painted-on limbs, Violently kicking as brass melody swims. Suddenly—surging, the music breaks high! A fountain erupts like a flash in the sky. The droplets explode like a rain of thrown glass, And dizzy streets sway as the citizens pass.
The clip-clop of hooves strikes a slow, steady beat, As a grand horse and cart trundles down the wet street. With a heavy-set stride and a warm, fog-bound breath, It carries the freight through this landscape of death. The old wooden wheels turn a rhythmic design, A nostalgic vignette from an earlier time.
And there on the Spui, cast in defiant bronze, Stands the street urchin, king of the cobblestones. With mischievous grace and his hands on his hips, The Little Darling watches with wine on his lips. A cheeky young boy with a spirit of gold, As the frantic urban stories unfold.
Wide velvet lapels catch the streetlamp's pale beams, Flared trousers cutting through Amsterdam dreams. "Drop the gun," a low voice breaks the frost, In a vintage Euro-noir where the guilty get lost. Pigeons scatter in panic, a grey-feathered blast, As the camera tilts wildly, drunk on the cast.
A raincoat flashes, a quick sudden turn, The city vibrates with a frantic concern. A geometric stride cuts right through the fog, Chasing down every lost hound in the bog. The momentum builds to a blinding bright spark, A sharp, slashing line slicing right through the dark.
