Bull of the Woods

Takes a gallon of coffee to wake him, But it’s sweet when his axe hits the spot, While the mist slips away from the mountain, And the day hardens dusty and hot. He contends with the bothersome thicket, Stays alert for the growl of the bear, And considers the question of silence Should he fall when there’s nobody there. He’s no steam donkey spool tender, Nor bolt punching river pig. He can chow down the gut robber’s grub. He’s no short-stake bark peeler. He’s a tin pants timber beast, A high balling bull of the woods. Shoulders burn as he carves his obsession, Dark and moist, till his brow’s dripping wet, Like the day when she danced for him naked And the night when they mingled their sweat In that boarding house in Seattle Just across from the Skid Road Saloon, In the heat of a lumber town payday, By the light of a Puget Sound moon. He’s no steam donkey spool tender, Nor bolt punching river pig. He can chow down the gut robber’s grub. He’s no short-stake bark peeler. He’s a tin pants timber beast, A high balling bull of the woods. There’s a kerosene lamp in the bunkhouse, Lends a halo of warmth to the room Where the dreamers see visions of back cuts And their snores sound like logs in a flume. As he ponders the hand that’s been dealt him, Can’t distinguish a heart from a spade On the deacon seat drinking whisky. Getting drunk when he’d rather get laid. A woodsman works from dark to dark. He labors from tree to tree. Yet light of heart he leaves his mark For none but his Maker to see.