| I lived in a town way down south
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| By the name of Buffalo
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| Worked in the mill with the rest of the trash
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| As we’re often called you know
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| You factory folks who sing this rhyme
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| Will surely understand
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| The reason why I love you so
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| Is I’m a factory hand
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| While standing here between my looms
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| You know I lose no time
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| To keep my shuttles in a whizz
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| And write this little rhyme
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| We rise up early in the morn'
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| And work all day real hard
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| To buy our little meat and bread
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| And sugar, tea and lard
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| We work from weekend to weekend
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| And never lose a day
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| And when that awful payday comes
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| We draw our little pay
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| We then go home on payday night
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| And sit down in a chair
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| The merchant raps upon the door
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| He’s come to get his share
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| When all our little debts are paid
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| And nothing left behind
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| We turn our pockets wrong-side out
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| But not a cent can we find
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| We rise up early in the morn'
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| And toil from soon to late
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| We have no time to primp or fix
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| And dress right up to date
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| Our children they grow up unlearned
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| No time to go to school
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| Almost before they have learned to walk
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| They have learned to spin or spool
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| The bossman jerks them round and round
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| And whistles very keen
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| I’ll tell you what the factory kids
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| Are really treated mean
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| The folks in town who dress so fine
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| And spend their money free
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| Will hardly look at a factory hand
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| Who dresses like you and me
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| As we go walking down the street
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| All wrapped in lint and strings
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| They call us fools and factory trash
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| And other lowdown things
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| Well let them wear their watches fine
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| Their rings and pearly strings
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| When the day of judgement comes
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| We’ll make 'em shed their pretty things |