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Well he wakes up early,
when the sun breaks ‘cross the land.
Then he goes out on the river,
high up on the logs he stands.
For counting twenty years now
he’s been a river-driving man.

And he don’t do anything else…

He drives that timber
down the river with the flow.
He always knows the river
will determine where it goes.
When it jams upon the curves,
he clears it out with a pole.

Dangerous job too…

Sometimes the logs they
get snagged up on the rocks.
If he don’t go get ‘em,
the whole river they will block.
But the sawmill is awaiting,
and he knows they’re on the clock.

Time is money, boys, time is money…

More than once now,
this man has fell right in.
The half-frozen water,
it starts him shivering.
One day he may test the river,
and the river it might win.

River gets like that when it’s mad…

One say some hippies
got a rule made by the state.
No more drives on the river,
it’s ‘too dirty’ and ‘not safe.’
From now on the lumber
will move by trucks and trains.

Hippies ruin everything, don’t they?

Now he sits at the diner,
shootin’ bull with Norma Jean.
He goes down to the fair,
and he wins at the log-rolling.
It just ain’t the same though,
and nobody is hiring.

That’s always how it is…

These days we got hipsters,
of lumberjacks they are a fan.
Everywhere you see flannel,
but not a single calloused hand.
The world it has no place for
an old river-driving man.

Yes, the world it has no space for
an old river-driving man…

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