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
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 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
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 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