| The guys on the dock laze around, race the forklift | |
| And sass the floor lady 'til it's time for their tea | |
| They sit at the table by the window that opens | |
| And get paid a buck more an hour than me. | |
| Chorus | |
| High is the smell, low is the pay | |
| Long are the hours, why do we stay? | |
| Somewhere outside a whole summer slips away | |
| While we're stuck in here canning salmon. | |
| The machinery's so loud that we say we've gone "can deaf" | |
| And our shift is long over before we can hear | |
| But they keep the noise level just under the limit | |
| So they won't have to buy us the right safety gear. | |
| Chorus | |
| First we can springs so heavy our arms ache | |
| Next we do sockeye; we can them with ease | |
| Then we do pinks, all mashed up and rotten | |
| So they're packed up in pound cans and shipped overseas. | |
| Chorus | |
| Last night we were waiting for a boat to come in | |
| So they kept on line just standing around | |
| We didn't know that outside on the Fraser | |
| A boat had flipped over and two men had drowned | |
| Chorus | |
| High is the cost, low is the pay | |
| Long are the hours, why do we stay? | |
| Somewhere outside a whole summer slips away | |
| While we're stuck in here canning salmon. | |