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

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

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