Why are you hangin' on
so tight
to the rope
that I'm hangin' 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
gettin' f**kin' 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 crackin'
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
never yours
busy lapping
from flowing cup
And stabbing
with your fork
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 crackin'
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
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 then 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 then 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