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#049 

{title:The_Frozen_Logger} 

{st:James_Stevens} 

As_[C]I_sat_down_one_[G7]evening, 

Twas_in_a_small_caf[C]e, 

A_forty_year_old_[F]waitress 

To_[G7]me_these_words_did_[C]say: 

 
 

I_see_that_youre_a_logger, 

And_not_a_common_bum, 

For_no_one_but_a_logger 

Stirs_coffee_with_his_thumb. 

 
 

I_once_had_a_logger_lover, 

Theres_none_like_him_today. 

If_you_poured_whisky_on_it, 

Hed_eat_a_bail_of_hay. 

 
 

He_never_shaved_a_whisker 

Off_of_his_horny_hide; 

He_hammered_in_the_bristles, 

And_bit_them_off_inside. 

 
 

My_logger_came_to_see_me, 

Twas_on_a_winters_day; 

He_held_me_in_a_fond_embrace 

That_broke_three_vertebrae. 

 
 

He_kissed_me_when_we_parted 

So_hard_it_broke_my_jaw; 

I_couldnt_speak_to_tell_him 

He_forgot_his_mackinaw. 

 
 

I_saw_my_logger_lover 

Go_stridin_through_the_snow, 

A-goin_gaily_homeward 

At_forty-eight_below. 

 
 

The_weather_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_Douglass_Fir. 

 
 

And_so_I_lost_my_logger, 

And_to_this_cafe_Ive_come, 

And_its_here_I_wait_for_someone 

To_stir_coffee_with_his_thumb. 

# 

#_Submitted_to_the_ftp.nevada.edu:/pub/guitar_archives 

#_by_Steve_Putz_ 

#_7_September_1992 

 
 


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