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 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.



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,

Swinging On His Arm.

I Can Hear My Granddad's Stories

Of The Storms Out On Lake Erie

Where Vessels And Cargoes And Fortunes

And Sailors' Lives Were Lost.



Yes, But It's 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.