Artista:
A Bad Goodbye
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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 aint easy, millwork aint hard.Millwork, it aint nothinbut an awful, boring job.Im waiting for a daydreamto take me through the mornin;Put me in my coffee breakwhere I can have a sandwhich and remember.And its 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 smilinand me swingin on his arm.I can hear my granddads storiesof the storms out on Lake Erie,where vessels and cargosand fortunes and sailors lives were lost.Yeah, but its my life thats been wasted.And I have been the foolto let this manufactureuse my body for a tool.As I ride home in the eveninIm 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 Im able,and never meet the manwhos name is on the label.Whoa, its me and my machinefor the rest of the mornin,for the rest of the afternoon,for the rest of my life . . . wasted.
