labour

(One, two, three)

Why are you hanging on

So tight

To the rope that I'm hanging from

Off this island?

This was an escape plan (this was an escape plan)

Carefully timed it so that we'd 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 f**g tired

The capillaries in my eyes are bursting

If our love died would that be the worst thing?

For somebody that I thought was my saviour

You sure make me do a whole lot of labour

The callous 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

(You make me do too much labour, 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

(I know you're a smart man)

And weaponize 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 that I thought was my saviour

You sure make me do a whole lot of labour

The callous 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 than a servant

Just an appendage, live to attend him

So that he never lifts a finger

Twenty-four seven 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 than a servant

Just an appendage, live to attend him

So that he never lifts a finger

Twenty-four seven 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 that I thought was my saviour

You sure make me do a whole lot of labour

The callous 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