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
Why are you hanging on
So tight
To the rope that I ’ m hanging from
Off this island
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 getting ****ing 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 bed chamber
You make me do too much labour
Apologies from my tongue
And never yours
Busy lapping from flowing cup
And stabbing with your fork
I know you ’ re a smart man
And weaponize
The false incompetence
It ’ s dominance under 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 bed chamber
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
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 bed chamber
You make me do too much labour
