Milworker Testo

Now my grandfather was a sailor.He blew in off the water.My father was a farmerand I his only daughter.Took up with a no goodmillworking man from Massachusettswho died from too much whiskeyand 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 daydreamto take me through the mornin';Put me in my coffee breakwhere I can have a sandwhich and remember.And it's me and my machinefor the rest of the mornin',for the rest of the afternoon,for the rest of my life.Now my mind begins to wanderto the days back on the farm.I can see my father smilin'and me swingin' on his arm.I can hear my granddad's storiesof the storms out on Lake Erie,where vessels and cargosand fortunes and sailor's lives were lost.Yeah, but it's, my life has been wasted.And I have been the foolto let this manufactureuse my body for a tool.As I ride home in the evenin'I'm staring at my hands,swearin' by my sorrowthat a young girl ought to stand a better chance.Oh, but may I work the millsjust as long as I'm able,and never meet the manwho's name is on the label.Whoa, it's me and my machinefor the rest of the mornin',for the rest of the afternoon,for the rest of my life . . . wasted.