Down At The Mill - Greg Brown

Down at the mill, down at the mill

The mill broke down, it’s broken still

I never did find you, and I guess I never will

Unless you meet me down at the mill

It’s always August, sweat on your neck

You do the work but you never see a check

Fat Annie waiting for you — man, if looks could kill

You never would have woke this morning, down at the mill

Young guys on motorcycles, hard eyes, hardons

Go chasing through the woods to the muddy yellow pond

Their hands are filthy, their souls are dirty

They shoot the shit with a 30−30

Down at the mill, down at the mill

Grampa spit tobacco at a barrel full of swill

There’s a sawdust mountain and a slabwood hill

And Jim Beam on the jammer, down at the mill

Dammit now I told you, goddammit I said

Get that little bastard Frank, smack him on the head

I’m on my way to Jesus but I’m moving slow

If you think that you can take me, c’mon, let’s go

Grease of the engine, whine of the saw

The trouble with the customers, they’re all in-laws

Don’t even ask them about the way they feel

They’re all broke down like the damn old mill