As I sat
down one evening
within a small cafe,
a forty -year -old waitress to
me these words did say,
I see that 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 would pour whiskey on it,
he would eat a bale of hay.
And he never shaved the whiskers
from off of his horn, he'd hide.
He'd just drive them in with a hammer
and bite them off inside.
My lover came to see me,
t 'was on a freezing day.
He held me in a fond embrace
that broke three vertebrae.
He kissed me when we parted,
so hard that he broke my jaw.
And I could not speak to tell him
He'd forgot his Mackin
ac
I saw my lover leaving,
sauntering through the snow,
going bravely homeward
at 48 below.
Now the weather tried to freeze him,
it tried its level best.
At a hundred degrees below zero,
he buttoned up his vest.
And it froze clear down to China,
it froze to the stars above
At a thousand degrees below zero,
it froze my lager love
And so I lost my lover,
and to this cafe I come
And here I wait till someone
stirs his coffee with his thumb.