by Cassie Hall
A song about the time my great-grandmother quit her job.
|Ya throw the scissors, or ya keep on sewin'?|
Gotta make the quota. Your fingers are achin'.
Grab another cloth, ladies. Keep on goin'.
Ya throw those scissors, or ya keep on sewin'?
Gotta keep the chicken on their plates.
Gotta keep the heat; no time to pray.
Thimble's on my thumb; water's in my pail.
'Cause I kept my scissors, and I kept on sewin'.
Grabbed all my cloth, kept right on goin'.
Sweat dripping. Neck aching.
Kept on sewin'.
boss leans on my machine.
Smelled the gin on him.
He said that damn word, "Quota."
I saw his fists. I saw no ring.
I saw him clenching. I saw the thing
that's really grittin' him.
Wondered who his wife's layin' with now.
I was standing there, scissors in my hands.
Clocks were ticking. Machine's going dead
The two of us standin' out on the floor.
And damn if I didn't see the wet in eyes.
And damn. I didn't know if his wife cried
for him anymore.
I looked dead at him and I threw that blade.
Did a 180. Walked out of the shade.
Slammed the doors on that criss-cross-stitchin' place.
The heat's still goin' in my home.
My water's still hot. The plates are still full.
But to this day,
I cannot tell you if I hit or if I missed!
When I threw those scissors. When I quit that sewin'.
When I ditched that quota. When my fingers stopped achin'.
Gonna tell my kids "Never let that sewin'
sew over you."
Sew over you.
So over you!