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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.

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.

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