Now 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 died from too much whiskey
And leaves me these three faces to feed

Millwork ain't easy, millwork ain't hard
Millwork, it ain't nothin'
But an awful, boring job
I'm waiting for a daydream
To take me through the mornin';
Put me in my coffee break
Where I can have a sandwhich and remember

And it's me and my machine
For the rest of the mornin'
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 smilin'
And me swingin' on his arm
I can hear my granddad's stories
Of the storms out on Lake Erie
Where vessels and cargos
And fortunes and sailor's lives were lost

Yeah, but it's my life that's been wasted
And I have been the fool
To let this manufacture
Use my body for a tool
As I ride home in the evenin'
I'm staring at my hands
Swearin' by my sorrow
That a young girl ought to stand a better chance

Oh, but may I work the mills
Just as long as I'm able
And never meet the man
Who's name is on the label

Whoa, it's me and my machine
For the rest of the mornin'
For the rest of the afternoon
For the rest of my life . . . wasted