Ode to Tante Leen | Authentic Amsterdam

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Unadulterated Amsterdam

This song is for you, Helena Polder, Aunt Leen of the Jordaan,
where I see your bust standing on the Elandsgracht.
You had it hard in this crazy life,
early on without your dad; you were just a seven-year-old girl.

Shrimp peeling, cleaning, tapping beer. You were always there,
even when you became famous, you, nightingale of the Willemsstraat 
In your Jordaan, before the hip bakfiets and before the ditto yuppie.
But the beer still flows and Ajax 's still our club.

Oh, Aunt Leen, Aunt Leen,
sing a song for Mokum alone.
Now you get your ass kicked for nothing,
and oat milk replaces the pickaninny.
While the Jordanian disappeared.

Mokum is I Amsterdam, not a city but a real City. 
With English as the language of communication, I know. It is such a pity.
In Café Royal you sang, hand on the counter, in d'other your microphone. 
And millionaires in the Jordaan? That was unusual back then.

The language of our city is forever embedded in your songs.
Thank you for giving that to us and to Johnny.
When the birds go to sleep and it's quiet around me,
I think of you, and of “red roses,” dear, sweet Aunt Leen.

Oh, Aunt Leen, Aunt Leen,
sing a song for Mokum alone.
Now here you get your ass whipped for nothing,
and oat milk replaces the pickaninny.
While the Jordanian disappeared.

Maria van Soest