The Ballad Of Frisco Slim Poem by Pat Weddle

At a camp in the hills
Among the rocks and rills
Is where this story began
Where loggers were found – From Puget Sound
Across to Michigan
In the Spring of the year – when weather was clear
They would gather at Central Camp
From near and far, by rail and car
But most of them came to tramp.
Now this one logging man – who was tall and tan
Well built and very trim
He would fight like a cat – at the dropp of a hat
They called him Frisco Slim
There was one mean man – in the mess hall clan
That tended the coffee pot.
He looked mean as hell – you could certainly tell
That friendly he was not.
Frisco would stare – the others would glare.
Gossip went round on the side.
That sooner or later – this came from the waiter-
These two were bound to collide.
Down to the gym went Frisco Slim
With his cronies by his side.
Already there – with hairy chest bare
Was Omar the cookhouse pride.
The gloves were laced – each other faced
Then warily circled about
“So get him Slim” came through the din
As the loggers began to shout.
The pace was fast – it couldn’t last
Both wore a real mean frown.
The air was split as Omar hit
And Frisco Slim went down
Pitched on his head like a man that was dead
He looked as if he was shot.
While over him glared, with knuckles bared
Was Omar, King of the Pot
This tale is told
of a breed that was bold
Rough, tough and bad
They worked like mules and then like fools
Spent every dime they had.