Sunday night I takes my woman to a party.
She’s Cherokee, real cool. We smoke some stuff,
jump in her car and roll down to a juke joint.
But it’s slow. We clear out, get in the Chevy.
I drives her to this joint called Paul Bunyan.
Blood on the highway! This U-breaker jumps my ass.

I knows he wants to catch me wagging my ass.
I takes it real cool. The pig ain’t no party,
he tails me for a mile, shakes loose my stuffing.
I haves me a suspended license and a joint.
I pull over on the shoulder, park the Chevy.
He’s right behind, like I’m Paul Bunyan.

He scuffs the gravel, thinks he’s Paul Bunyan,
looks me mean in the eye; I think he’ll bust my ass.
I tells him, “My girl’s had a few at a party.
I’m taking her home.” He wants me to count ‘n’ stuff,
peeks inside the car cracking his stiff joints,
asks to see my license and papers for the Chevy.

I says, “Yes, Sandra Hook owns the Chevy,
but she’s had three margaritas at Paul Bunyan.
I ain’t got green eyes, ain’t drunk off my ass
either.” He smiles and asks me if I partied.
Straight-faced I says, “I never touch the stuff,”
my right hand on my heart, crushing the joint.

He says, “This once you’re off the hook. Enjoy it,”
jots the plates down. “Better not see the Chevy
again tonight, I’m a regular at Paul Bunyan,”
then he drags away his fucking fat ass.
I asks Sandy, “You still want to go to the party?
Them dudes are mellow. It ain’t nothing stuffy.”

She tells me she’s cool for now. “Let’s stuff it,
drive far out in the boonies, roll a joint,
fuck under the stars or in the back seat of the Chevy.”
I tells her, “Sandy, I’ve got something Paul Bunyan
never had,” slide behind the wheel and squeeze her ass.
“Cool. Then we’ll just have us our own party.”

Burning a joint by the campfire, I am Paul Bunyan.
We leave our stuff in the Chevy, go bare-assed,
wrapped in sweat and smoke, like a war party.