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 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`
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