| Now my grandfather was a sailor.
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| He blew in off the water.
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| My father was a farmer
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| and I his only daughter.
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| Took up with a no good
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| millworking man from Massachusetts
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| who died from too much whiskey
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| and leaves me these three faces to feed.
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| Millwork ain’t easy, millwork ain’t hard.
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| Millwork, it ain’t nothin'
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| but an awful, boring job.
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| I’m waiting for a daydream
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| to take me through the mornin';
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| Put me in my coffee break
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| where I can have a sandwhich and remember.
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| And it’s me and my machine
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| for the rest of the mornin',
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| for the rest of the afternoon,
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| for the rest of my life.
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| Now my mind begins to wander
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| to the days back on the farm.
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| I can see my father smilin'
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| and me swingin' on his arm.
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| I can hear my granddad’s stories
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| of the storms out on Lake Erie,
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| where vessels and cargos
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| and fortunes and sailor’s lives were lost.
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| Yeah, but it’s my life that’s been wasted.
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| And I have been the fool
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| to let this manufacture
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| use my body for a tool.
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| As I ride home in the evenin'
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| I’m staring at my hands,
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| swearin' by my sorrow
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| that a young girl ought to stand a better chance.
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| Oh, but may I work the mills
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| just as long as I’m able,
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| and never meet the man
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| who’s name is on the label.
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| Whoa, it’s me and my machine
|
| for the rest of the mornin',
|
| for the rest of the afternoon,
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| for the rest of my life. |
| .. wasted. |