As I sat down one evening within a small café,
A forty year old waitress to me these words did say:
I see that you are a logger, Sir, and not just a common bum,
No one but a logger stirs his coffee with is thumb.
I once was a logger lover, there's none like him today;
If you'd pour whiskey on it he could eat a bale of hay
He never shaved his whiskers from off of his horny hide;
He'd just drive them in with a hammer and bite them off inside.
My lover came to see me it was on a winter day;
He held me in his fond embrace which broke three vertebrae.
He kissed me when we parted, so hard that he broke my jaw;
I could not speak to tell him he'd forgot his mackinaw.
I saw my lover leaving, going through the snow,
Going gaily homeward at forty-eight below
The weather tried to freeze him, it really did its best;
At a hundred degrees below zero, he buttoned up his vest.
It froze clean through to China, it froze to the stars above;
At a thousand degrees below zero, it froze my logger love.
They may tried to thaw him, and would you believe me, Sir
They made him into axeblades, to chop the Douglas fir.
© Words and music: James Stevens
© 2012 www.derrolladams.org