Hustlin' Broke

All the deep mines petered out in Western Maryland,
and there ain't enough coal dust left to make you choke;
so I guess that I'll just head on down the river,
and tomorrow you can find me hustlin' broke.

In the pulp and paper mills I'll make a livin',
hunks of pulpwood splattered on my jeans,
throwin' tons of paper in the beater
that rips and falls from off the big machines.

CHORUS:

Hustlin' broke, hustlin' broke;
you can't make no money pickin' up scrap paper
and that is why they call it "hustlin' broke."

They got me workin' way down in the cellar,
twenty feet below the big machine;
it's hot enough to boil your drinkin' water,
with the biggest rats a man has ever seen.

Sometimes you break your back for four hours runnin',
before you got a chance to grab a smoke.
Your hands are full of blisters from hot paper,
but that's the way it gets from hustlin' broke.

CHORUS

When all the mill machines are runnin' paper,
and the breaks just keep on fillin' every slot;
Lord, the sweat is rollin' off your forehead,
and you never thought that Hell could get so hot.

Your back is breakin' leanin' on the beater,
as you're watchin all those paper rollers rock.
With that pulpwood smell a' stickin' to your body
you'd kill to get a beer at four o'clock.

CHORUS

Lord, I miss my wife and pretty little daughter;
shoot, I almost think I even miss that mine.
I think I'll cash my check this comin' payday,
and buy a ticket south to Caroline.

Whoever said a man could make a livin'
in a paper mill, was tellin' one big joke.
When I see that red clay down in Carolina,
I'll forget I ever heard of hustlin' broke.

CHORUS