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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 aint easy, millwork aint hard.

Millwork, it aint nothin

But an awful, boring job.

Im 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 its 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 granddads stories

Of the storms out on lake erie,

Where vessels and cargos

And fortunes and sailors lives were lost.



Yeah, but its, my life has 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

Im 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 Im able,

And never meet the man

Whos name is on the label.



Whoa, its 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 aint easy, millwork aint hard.

Millwork, it aint nothin

But an awful, boring job.

Im 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 its 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 granddads stories

Of the storms out on lake erie,

Where vessels and cargos

And fortunes and sailors lives were lost.



Yeah, but its, my life has 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

Im 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 Im able,

And never meet the man

Whos name is on the label.



Whoa, its 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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