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.