The Crosscut in the Crotch

When loggers take a whiskey break
They scratch their underwear,
And without fail one starts a tale
So real you feel you're there.

The tree was young when Cutter hung
His crosscut in the crotch.
MacDonald said, That pecker's dead,
And swigged a slug of Scotch.

Then Murphy yelled, Some quick lick felled
A blue dick outlaw tree!
All hands and the cook and the whiskey jacks!

A bull of the woods was he.

They all took off like whooping cough.
The gill poked kid was fine.
The crosscut stayed where it was laid
Astride an Oregon pine.

That highball team spilled jersey cream
Like water from a well.
When they moved on, the old growth gone,
They put a patch on hell.

Nobody knew the tree still grew.
It kept on adding rings
Until the saw was swallowed raw,
Its handles spread like wings.

One day some greenhorn chanced to lean
His chainsaw steel to steel,
And in his hearse was heard to curse
From Moosejaw to Mobile.


[Definitions can be found in Woods Words: A Comprehensive Dictionary Of Loggers Terms, by Walter Fraser McCulloch, with an introduction by Stewart H. Holbrook]