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.