As I sat down one evening, twas in a small cafe, A forty year old waitress, to me these words did say:
"I see you are a logger, and not just a common bum, 'Cause no one but a logger stirs his coffee with his thumb.
My lover was a logger, there's none like him today; If you poured whisky on it, he'd eat a bale of hay
He never shaved his whiskers from off of his horny hide; He hammered in the bristles, and bit them off inside.
My logger came to see me, twas on a winter's day; He held me in his 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 lover, go striding through the snow, Going gaily homeward, at forty-eight below.
The weather it tried to freeze him, it did its very 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, it froze my logger love.
They tried in vain to thaw him, and if you believe it, sir They made him into axe blades, to cut the Douglas fir.
And so I lost my lover, and to this cafe I've come, And here I wait till someone, stirs his coffee with his thumb."Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
