The woodcutter with sharpened saw
Went to the woods one day
And he liked the timber that others scorned
He ignored what they did say
That the timber was damp and burned slowly
And gave away little heat
Just sapped the energy of the woodcutter
To cut for firewood was a fools feat.
But he cut the timber from the wood
And it burned brightly
And cracked and hissed as all wood does
For all wood it is damp slightly
The weather was fine – there’s time to dry
Before in the fire it burned
And he loved by that fire to sit
Stoke the embers that then to life returned.
And everyone one else had their fire as well
And from the chimneys belched smoke
But few by his fire they came to sit
Saying on its fumes one would choke.
And sometimes the fire it made him cough
Moretimes it made him smile
But he loved his fire, for all of its faults
And he’d sit and sleep by it awhile.
But then the winter set in, was hard
And the bitter wind was cold
And the timber was hard to chop now
For it was knotted and old.
And the thundering rain made it really damp
And it gave more smoke than heat
And the woodcutter by the fire shuddered
With cold hands and colder feet.
And in time the timber he did not burn
Desired from another wood instead
Thought as the others did that it was no good
Was damp, smokeful, and dead.
And decided as the other villagers did
Timber from another wood to cut
But he always desired the smell of the old timber
When lighting a fire in his little hut.