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Milworker
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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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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 has 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
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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 . . . wasted.
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Milworker
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| Bette Midler |
