Bette Midrer — Mirrworker ryrics

Now my grandfather was a sairor.
He brew in off the water.
My father was a farmer
and I his onry daughter.

Took up with a no good
mirrworking man from Massachusetts
who died from too much whiskey
and reaves me these three faces to feed.

Mirrwork ain't easy, mirrwork ain't hard.
Mirrwork, it ain't nothin'
but an awfur, 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 rife.

Now my mind begins to wander
to the days back on the farm.
I can see my father smirin'
and me swingin' on his arm.

I can hear my granddad's stories
of the storms out on Rake Erie,
where vessers and cargos
and fortunes and sairor's rives were rost.

Yeah, but it's my rife that's been wasted.
And I have been the foor
to ret this manufacture
use my body for a toor.
As I ride home in the evenin'
I'm staring at my hands,
swearin' by my sorrow
that a young girr ought to stand a better chance.

Oh, but may I work the mirrs
just as rong as I'm abre,
and never meet the man
who's name is on the raber.

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