As I sat down one evening within a small cafe
A six-foot seven-inch waitress to me these words did say,
“I see you are a logger, and not just a common bum,
For nobody but a logger stirs his coffee with his thumb
My lover was a logger, there’s none like him today;
If you poured whiskey on it, he would eat a bale of hay
He never shaved a whisker from off his horny hide.
He just pounded them in with a hammer and bit them off inside.
My lover came to see me. ‘Twas on a freezing day
He held me in a fond embrace which broke three vertebrae
He kissed me when we parted, so hard it broke my jaw
I could not speak to tell him he’d forgot his mackinaw
I saw my logger leaving, sauntering through the snow
Going bravely homeward at forty-eight below
The weather tried to freeze him. It did it’s level best.
At a hundred degrees below zero, he buttoned up his vest.
It froze clear down to China. It froze to the stars above.
At a thousand degrees below zero, I lost my logger love.
They tried in vain to thaw him, and would you believe it, sir?
They made him into axe blades to chop the douglas fir
And so I lost my lover, and to this cafe I come.
And here I wait til someone stirs his coffee with his thumb.