Tilting And Dykes Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I am not REALLY tilting at windmills.
As a Dutchman I have to have, always,
one finger in the hole of the dyke,
it's an old tradition and one the rest of,
the vast majority of the world's people
ought to take to heart, now and for all times.

When the Don pushed his armoured horse
and his stout marrow-bone frame against it,
the whole assembly toppled over, fell, landed
and with its last bit of strength, the whirring blades
somehow managed to chop chop part of it,
our wall of security called the Dyke over here.

Fixed all but a small, recalcitrant finger-sized hole,
the curse of a tradition by now, and a national,
even international, maybe global or universal symbol,
the hole, like the hole in the bucket, a pretty song.
I know, I know, you've been wondering all this time,
and yes it is the third finger, nothing else will do.