Now my grandfather was a sailor, He blew in off the water My father was a farmer 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
Millwork ain`t easy; mill-work ain`t hard Millwork, it ain`t nothing but an awful boring job I`m waiting for a day dream To take me through the morning And put me in my coffee break Where I can have a sandwich and remember
Then it`s me and my machine For the rest of the morning For the rest of the afternoon And 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, Swingin` 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
Yes, but it`s my life has been wasted, And I have been the fool To let this manufacture 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
It be me and my machine For the rest of the morning For the rest of the afternoon And the rest of my life
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