Eight Minutes 'Til the End

Title: Eight Minutes 'Til the End (The Joinery Shop) Genre: Working Rock / Industrial-inflected Author's Song Mood: Weary but proud. The feeling of a pleasant ache in the muscles and the smell of fresh shavings. (Verse 1) My cuffs are packed tight with the sawdust and grime, The edge banding's laid with a flawless design. We're piecing together the secrets of others, Doors for the heavens, the hells of their smothers, Stacked into pyramids on wooden crates. The counter on the machine's clocked out its shift. The veneer's grain pattern, a future flyer, Stares from the sheet, waiting for the next gift. (Pre-chorus) The spindle is dead, the compressor has hushed. The vent hides the last curl of shaving inside. And outside it smells like a forest, untouched, But the tool at my foot softly sobs as it died. (Chorus) Eight minutes 'til the end, 'til the whistle's sharp cry, The pricey board's locked in the vise, standing by. The saw blade is silent, the hot glue has cooled. Eight minutes of labor — our right, uncontested! Eight minutes won't snap off the cutter's steel tooth, No glossy new sheet will be laid on the bench. We just sit on the edge of the workstation booth, Wiping sweat, dust, and trails of enamel drench. (Verse 2) We tuck the drill bits away with the draft, Our dust-covered palms are the guild's ancient stamp. The joinery shop has now sung out its final, The particle board waits for the closing anthem. Some count not the money, but meters of pine, Some count the sharp angles of forty-five degrees. We build from the glue and the sawdust and line The things others keep for the coming centuries. (Pre-chorus) The spindle is dead, the compressor has hushed. The vent hides the last curl of shaving inside. And outside it smells like a forest, untouched, But the workbench beneath my hand softly sobs as it died. (Chorus) Eight minutes 'til the end, 'til the whistle's sharp cry, The pricey board's locked in the vise, standing by. The saw blade is silent, the hot glue has cooled. Eight minutes of labor — our right, uncontested! Eight minutes won't snap off the cutter's steel tooth, No glossy new sheet will be laid on the bench. We just sit on the edge of the workstation booth, Wiping sweat, dust, and trails of enamel drench. (Bridge) Seven. We wipe down the fronts of the doors. Six. All the tools are put back in their stores. Five. Tomorrow at eight, to the grind we'll return. Four. The client is smug with the money they earn. Three. This damn table will stand for the years. Two. We kill the main breaker, the shop disappears. One... Just let the foreman not shout down the line: "Boys, the kitchen groove doesn't match up this time!" (Chorus) Eight minutes 'til the end, 'til the whistle's sharp cry, The pricey board's locked in the vise, standing by. The saw blade is silent, the hot glue has cooled. Eight minutes of labor — our right, uncontested! Eight minutes won't snap off the cutter's steel tooth, No glossy new sheet will be laid on the bench. We just sit on the edge of the workstation booth, Wiping sweat, dust, and trails of enamel drench.