The Mill: A Winter Pastoral (8)
23 November 1971, Graveyard Shift
Grinderman’s Blues
It’s three o’clock in the morning
On a rainy Saturday night
I’m up at this ungodly hour
But I’m not even stoned or tight.
I’m a gruntin’ and a groanin’
Though I know that it just ain’t right
I’m stuck on this fuckin’ grinder
Until the dawnin’ light.
I’ve got those heavy, tombstone, graveyard grinderman’s blues
And when that mornin’ finally comes
I drag-ass home to sleep
My bedroom window’s boarded up
The daylight out to keep.
But in my mind that grinder churns
It never stops or slows
Instead of wood against the stone
I dream I push my nose.
I’ve got those heavy, tombstone, graveyard grinderman’s blues
When I wake up it’s dark again
And I need a piece of tail
But my wife she says, go chop some wood
And empty the garbage pail.
So I do as I’m told, I pick up the axe
And go out in the evenin’ chill
Cause heftin’ and heavin’ those logs for the stove
Is good practise for work at the mill.
I’ve got those heavy, tombstone, graveyard grinderman’s blues