As I sat down one evening within a small cafe,
a 40-year-old waitress to me these words did say,
I see that you are a logger and not just a common bum,
because nobody but a logger stirs his coffee with his thumb.
My lover was a logger,
there's none like him today,
if you'd pour whiskey on it he would eat a bale of hay.
Well 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 upon one freezing day,
he held me in a fond embrace which broke
three vertebrae.
Well he kissed me when we parted
so hard that he broke my jaw,
I could not speak to tell
him he'd forgot his Mackinac.
I saw my logger leaving,
sauntering through the snow,
going
gravely homeward at 48 below.
The weather it tried to freeze him,
it tried its level
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.
And so I lost my lover,
and to this cafe I come,
and here I wait till someone stirs his coffee with his thumb.