(James Taylor)
My grandad he was a sailor,
He blew in off the water
My father was a farmer
And I, his only daughter,
I 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 on a day dream
To take me through the morning
And put me in my coffee break
Where I can have a sandwich and remember
Then it's me and my machine
For the rest of the morning
For the rest of the afternoon
And 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,
Swingin' on his arm
I hear my grandad's stories
'Bout the storms out on Lake Erie
'Bout the fortunes and the cargos
And sailors, the sailor's lives were lost
Yeah, but it's my life has been wasted,
And I have been a fool
To let this manufacturer use my body for a tool.
I can ride home in the evening,
Staring at my hands
Swearing at my sorrow that a young girl
Ought to stand a better chance
But may I work your mills
Just as long as I am able
And never meet the man whose
Name is on the label
It's still me and my machine
For the rest of the morning
For the rest of the afternoon, solid gone,
For the rest of my life
