Millworker

Now my grandfather was a sailor.

He blew in off the water.

My father was a farmer

and I his only daughter.

Took up with a no good

millworking man from Massachusetts

who died from too much whiskey

and leaves me these three faces to feed.

Millwork ain't easy, millwork ain't hard.

Millwork, it ain't nothin'

but an awful, boring job.

I'm waiting for a daydream

to take me through the mornin';

Put me in my coffee break

where I can have a sandwhich and remember.

And it's me and my machine

for the rest of the mornin',

for the rest of the afternoon,

for the rest of my life.

Now my mind begins to wander

to the days back on the farm.

I can see my father smilin'

and me swingin' on his arm.

I can hear my granddad's stories

of the storms out on Lake Erie,

where vessels and cargos

and fortunes and sailor's lives were lost.

Yeah, but it's my life that's been wasted.

And I have been the fool

to let this manufacture

use my body for a tool.

As I ride home in the evenin'

I'm staring at my hands,

swearin' by my sorrow

that a young girl ought to stand a better chance.

Oh, but may I work the mills

just as long as I'm able,

and never meet the man

who's name is on the label.

Whoa, it's me and my machine

for the rest of the mornin',

for the rest of the afternoon,

for the rest of my life . . . wasted.