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 dies from too much whiskey and leaves me these three faces to feed Millwork aint easy, millwork aint hard Millwork it aint nothing but an awful boring job Im 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 Then its 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, swinging on his arm I can hear my granddads stories of the storms out on Lake Erie Where vessels and cargoes and fortunes and sailors lives were lost Yes, but its my life has been wasted, and I have 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 It be me and my machine for the rest of the morning And the rest of the afternoon, gone for the rest of my life
millwork, rest, sailor, afternoon, morning