Millworker

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 dies from too much whiskey
And leaves me these three faces to feed

Now millwork ain't easy, millwork ain't hard
Millwork, it ain't nothing but an awful boring job
I'm waiting for a daydream to take me through the morning
And put me in my coffee break
Where I can have a sandwich and remember

And it's me and my machine
For the rest of the morning
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 smiling at me swinging on his arm
I can hear my grand-dad's stories of the storms out on Lake Erie
Where vessels and cargos and fortunes
And sailor's lives were lost

But it's my life has been wasted and I've been the fool
To let this manufacturer use my body for a tool
I can ride home in the evening, staring at my hands
Swearing by my sorrow that a young girl ought to stand a better chance

So may I work the mills just as long as I am able
And never meet the man whose name is on the label

And it's me and my machine
For the rest of the morning
For the rest of the afternoon
For the rest of my life