Porter Mill Song

by Gavin Grant

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I know of a place in Porter Maine
where the windows are cross with iron and chain
And every door is locked
Left there to rot

You took me there so I could live again
beside the water wheel, with you
And the business, all dried up,
like many, a good prosperous town
In these parts

My father was a hard working man, of Lyman, of Scottish decent
He made a name, and living in his younger years, in many an old brick mill like these

And we, made our entrance, making sure, that no one was behind
through the window bars
that I pried back with these hands,
reaching through the brick an stone

We crept along the halls, hungry for the history of this place
And through, the adolescent, incandescent haze
Such history comes alive, in the brightness of my face

And I searched through the broken things that they left behind
in quiet desperation for things I knew I wouldn't find
Pining for a time that lives here no longer, I knew the dinner table
was running empty for the Maine loggers
So I sing this song for you, the great people that built these towns
just as quickly as you made your money then watched all them burn down
Computers killed the mill towns and the poverty followed suit
The history is forgotten, as the old foundations rot in
But you can see it in every tear drop, spilt in every beer
falling from the eyes of men, who's lives have somewhat disappeared
And you'll see it in the morning every Sunday, when the haggard lives
step out there door and kneel before their god praying for something more
than this
this can't be it.


released December 21, 2015



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Gavin Grant Portland, Maine

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