(One, two, three)
Why are you hangin' on so tight
To the rope that I'm hangin' from
Off this island?
This was an escape plan (this was an escape plan)
Carefully timed it, so let me go
And dive into the waves below
Who tends the orchards?
Who fixes up the gables?
Emotional torture
From the head of your high table
Who fetches the water
From the rocky mountain spring
And walk back down again
To feel your words and their sharp sting?
And I'm gettin' fuckin' tired
The capillaries in my eyes are bursting
If our love died, would that be the worst thing?
For somebody I thought was my saviour
You sure make me do a whole lot of labour
The calloused skin on my hands is cracking
If our love ends, would that be a bad thing?
And the silence haunts our bedchamber
You make me do too much labour
(You make me do too much labour)
Apologies from my tongue, never yours
Busy lappin' from flowing cup
And stabbin' with your fork
I know you're a smart man (I know you're a smart man)
And weaponise the false incompetence
It's dominance under a guise
If we had a daughter
I'd watch and could not save her
The emotional torture
From the head of your high table
She'd do what you taught her
She'd meet the same cruel fate
So now I've gotta run so I can undo this mistake
At least I've gotta try
The capillaries in my eyes are bursting
If our love died, would that be the worst thing?
For somebody I thought was my saviour
You sure make me do a whole lot of labour
The calloused skin on my hands is cracking
If our love ends, would that be a bad thing?
And the silence haunts our bedchamber
You make me do too much labour
All day, every day, therapist, mother, maid
Nymph, then a virgin, nurse, then a servant
Just an appendage, live to attend him
So that he never lifts a finger
24/7 baby machine
So he can live out his picket-fence dreams
It's not an act of love if you make her
You make me do too much labour
All day, every day, therapist, mother, maid
Nymph, then a virgin, nurse, then a servant
Just an appendage, live to attend him
So that he never lifts a finger
24/7 baby machine
So he can live out his picket-fence dreams
It's not an act of love if you make her
You make me do too much labour
The capillaries in my eyes are bursting (all day, every day, therapist, mother, maid)
If our love died, would that be the worst thing? (Nymph, then a virgin, nurse, then a servant)
For somebody I thought was my saviour (just an appendage, live to attend him)
You sure make me do a whole lot of labour (so that he never lifts a finger)
The calloused skin on my hands is cracking (24/7 baby machine)
So if our love ends, would that be a bad thing? (So he can live out his picket-fence dreams)
And the silence haunts our bedchamber (it's not an act of love if you make her)
You make me do too much labour
