(Ode to the closing of the paper-mill in Cornwall)
When the last whistle blows
We’ll go out on the town
For a job well done
Even though they shut us down
Any hope that pulp and fiber
Would line our dreams with gold
Is going straight up the stack
When the last whistle blows
The news is rather grim
And we hate to see it come
Cause we’ve been reeling paper
Since eighteen eighty one
O’er a hundred years of toil
To this agonizing end
It’s hard to point a finger
For the mess that we’re in
The last shift is over
The final shipment gone
No more boiling wood chips
From dusk until dawn
There’s a sad and eerie silence
As the last machine shuts down
‘Cause we know it won’t be easy
It’s all different now
This is the only place I’ve ever called home
This town’s rebounded from hard times before
I still believe they’ll be something here for me
It won’t take long, It won’t take long
c2006 Nancy Beaudette – All Rights Reserved
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