Neither rain nor sleet nor dark of night, keeps poor Old Clyde from his intended plight.

He chugs and snorts and burps his fuel, creeps and squeaks from every wheel.

Little stiff on the left from yesterday's mud, sure wish Mr. C. would wash off this crud.

Sun's coming up. Old Clyde starts to move, down the long road, back in the groove.

Face towards the sun, head high in the sky, out of the way, Old Clyde's going by.

Forth and back he runs all the day, loading and dumping, no time to play.

The logs get heavier with each passing load,

but his chassis bears up and he goes down the road.

Sixteen hours he has gone this route, take Old Clyde home, he is all pooped out.

Wash his body, shine his chrome, Mr. Connelly, take Old Clyde home!

By: Arlene Soderstrom