C                       G                           C
As I sat down one evening, 'twas in a small cafe,
C                F            G                          C 
A forty year old waitress, to me these words did say:
C                         G                        C
I see that you're a logger, and not a common bum,
C                F            G                       C 
For no one but a logger stirs coffee with his thumb.

C                         G                            C
I once had a logger lover, there's none like him today.
C                     F           G             C 
If you poured whiskey on it, he'd eat a bail of hay.
C                       G                         C
He never shaved a whisker, off of his horny hide;
C                  F             G              C 
He hammered in the bristles, and bit them off inside.

C                       G                           C
My logger came to see me, 'twas on a winter's day;
C               F                  G                C 
He held me in a fond embrace, that broke three vertebrae.
C                          G                           C
He kissed me when we parted, so hard it broke my jaw;
C                   F               G            C 
I couldn't speak to tell him, he forgot his mackinaw.

C                     G                              C
I saw my logger lover, go stridin' through the snow,
C             F            G             C 
A-goin' gaily homeward, at forty-eight below.
C                          G                           C
The weather tried to freeze him, it did its very best;
C                          F        G               C 
At a hundred degrees below zero, he buttoned up his vest.

C                            G                            C
It froze clear down to China, it froze to the stars above;
C                           F        G                       C 
At a thousand degrees below zero, it froze my logger love.
C                           G                                C
They tried in vain to thaw him, and if you believe it, Sir,
C                  G                                C
They made him into axe blades, to cut the Douglas Fir.

C                      G                             C
And so I lost my logger, and to this cafe I've come,
C                        F                G                       C 
And it's here I wait for someone, to stir coffee with his thumb.