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(james taylor) |
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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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I, his only daughter, |
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Took up with a no-good millworking man from massachusetts |
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Who dies from too much whiskey |
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And leaves me these three faces to feed |
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Millwork ain't easy; mill-work ain't hard |
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Millwork, it ain't nothing but an awful boring job |
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I'm waiting for a day dream |
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To take me through the morning |
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And put me in my coffee break |
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Where i can have a sandwich and remember |
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Then it's me and my machine |
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For the rest of the morning |
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For the rest of the afternoon |
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And 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 smiling at me, |
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Swingin' on his arm |
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I can hear my grand-dad's stories |
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Of the storms out on lake erie |
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Where vessels and cargos and fortunes |
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And sailor's lives were lost |
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Yes, but it's my life has been wasted, |
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And i have been the fool |
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To let this manufacture use my body for a tool. |
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I can ride home in the evening, |
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Staring at my hands |
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Swearing by my sorrow that a young girl |
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Ought to stand a better chance |
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So may i work the mills |
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Just as long as i am able |
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And never meet the man whose |
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Name is on the label |
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It be me and my machine |
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For the rest of the morning |
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For the rest of the afternoon |
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And the rest of my life |
