As I sat down one evening,
'Twas in a small cafe;
A fifty-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 coffee with his thumb.

I had a logger lover;
There's none like him today.
If you poured whiskey on it,
He'd eat a bale of hay.

He never shaved a whisker
From off of his horny hide;
He hammered in the bristles,
And chewed them off inside.

My logger came to see me,
One dreary winter's day;
He held me in a fond embrace
That broke six vertebrae.

He kissed me when we parted,
So hard it broke my jaw;
I couldn't speak to tell him
He forgot his mackinaw.

I watched my logger lover
Trek out across the snow,
A-headin' gaily homeward
At forty-two below.

The weather tried to freeze him,
It tried its dalgarn 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 logger,
And to this cafe I've come,
And it's here I wait for someone
To stir coffee with his thumb.