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Vwjohnson

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    Potlatch, ID

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    Logging contractors for 50 years. Have a fleet of trucks including several old Macks.

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  1. I’M A LOG TRUCK I’m a log truck all rusty and tired, I’m hoping one day soon I’ll get retired. My owner says it’s getting close for him too, ‘Cause in one more year he’ll be 62. He says he’ll keep working after he’s retired. All that means is I’ll get more haywired. Over the years I’ve made lots of money, But this hard work has my back broke, Honey. After 3 motors, 2 trannies, and 1 rear-end, I’m here to tell you, I’m about to bend. I’ll do my best for the next few years, But if I have a stroke, I want no tears. We’ve seen roads aplenty, mud, ice and heat. But let me tell you, Pardner, I’m about beat.. My doors are hangin’, my headlights are loose, And he still drives me like a runaway goose. I imagine this winter it’ll get 20 below, Then out I’ll go again in the ice and snow. I had a good time up and down the lanes And only twice did he have to use chains. After spring breakup, all painted like new, Back to McMurray’s, 3 gates to go through. Hundreds of cows a poopin’ in the road After a few days I was green as a toad. My new paint job, all covered with dust and poop, You’d think he would wash me, but he’s just a stupe. Sometimes I’m embarrassed up at the mill Because I smell like cow dung, very strong still. His dog Earl got so fat she took up the whole seat. Now she stays home and licks her sore feet. I miss her company, stink and all, Now she stays home and has a ball. Three years have passed since he could retire. He’ll be 65 so I think he’s a liar. He had a major operation on his gut. Now here I am still in the same rut. He healed from the surgery and wouldn’t you know Up and down the road, again here we go! I was loaded with pulp and planned it, no doubt. I rolled down the hill while my driver was out. Got up to about 30 and there were 3 big trees. I thought to myself suicide is a breeze. I did all I could to miss houses and people. Instead I hit 3 spruce trees as high as a steeple. I was buried under brush, limbs, trees and butts. I had tree roots under me that tore out my guts. I was stripped of mirrors, air cleaners and spotlight. My right side smashed, hood ornament horse died of fright. After the crash I was a done duck . . . I knew my owner had run out of luck. Damage to the trees was $12,000. Owner’s insurance paid, but boy, did he holler. I knew it was the end of the line for sure. But 3 weeks of hard work I had to endure. After weeks of repair and lots of money Here I am again, lookin’ kinda funny. Hauling up and down, my engine sounding like thunder, I thought by now I’d be 6 feet under. Back to work I went, not knowing how long I’d last After all he’s 66 now and still having a blast. He is slowing down some and his hair is turning white. My own appearance has turned into a fright. Maybe next week we’ll get a little freeze And down the road we’ll go again like a breeze. I’ll start January 2004 with chains and slick roads Hoping I’ll be able to haul a few more loads. Soon he’ll be 70 and still on the council for a while I just imagine in the next verse I’ll be a junk pile. It’s now winter of 2006 I’m still hauling them little sticks. It’s been real mild so I’ve been in the shop Hopin’ the rain and thawing won’t stop. If my owner didn’t spend all the money I made He’d be in Arizona sittin’ in the shade. I’ll do my best for the next few years But if I have a stroke I want no tears. My doors are hangin’, my headlights are loose. And he keeps on driving me like a runaway goose. Two years have past and he promised to retire. He’ll be 69 and I still think he’s a liar. Now my owner’s about 70 and seems to be fit. Over a half million miles—you’d think he’d quit! I’m 26 years old and feelin’ my age Sitting here in the shop like I’m in a cage. It won’t be long and I’ll be recycled. I hope I come back as a bicycle. He says he will buy a different machine. His wife is mad and tells him he’s insane. My owner is almost 74, I’m thirty and over half a million miles or more. I’m mad at his rotten attitude As I sit in the shop and brood. I imagine if he lives till spring, Up and down the roads I’ll go. I might not start—I hope. I hope and pray I’ll get recycled And come back as a tricycle.
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