One, two, threeWhy are you hanging on so tightTo the rope that I'm hanging from?Off this island, this was an escape plan (this was an escape plan)Carefully timed it, so let me goAnd dive into the waves belowWho tends the orchards? Who fixes up the gables?Emotional torture from the head of your high tableWho fetches the water from the rocky mountain spring?And walk back down again to feel your words and their sharp stingAnd I'm getting * tiredThe capillaries in my eyes are burstingIf our love died, would that be the worst thing?For somebody I thought was my saviourYou sure make me do a whole lot of labourThe calloused skin on my hands is crackingIf our love ended, would that be a bad thing?And the silence haunts our bed chamberYou make me do too much labourYou make me do too much labourApologies from my tongue, and never yoursBusy lapping from flowing cup and stabbing with your forkI know you're a smart man (I know you're a smart man), and weaponiseThe false incompetence, it's dominance under a guiseIf we had a daughter, I'd watch and could not save herThe emotional torture, from the head of your high tableShe'd do what you taught her, she'd meet the same cruel fateSo now I've gotta run, so I can undo this mistakeAt least I've gotta tryThe capillaries in my eyes are burstingIf our love died, would that be the worst thing?For somebody I thought was my saviourYou sure make me do a whole lot of labourThe calloused skin on my hands is crackingIf our love ends, would that be a bad thing?And the silence haunts our bed chamberYou make me do too much labourAll day, every day, therapist, mother, maidNymph then a virgin, nurse then a servantJust an appendage, live to attend himSo that he never lifts a finger24∕7, baby machineSo he can live out his picket fence dreamsIt's not an act of love if you make herYou make me do too much labourAll day, every day, therapist, mother, maidNymph then virgin, nurse and a servantJust an appendage, live to attend himSo that he never lifts a finger24∕7, baby machineSo he can live out his picket fence dreamsIt's not an act of love if you make herYou make me do too much labourThe capillaries in my eyes (all day, every day)Are bursting (therapist, mother, maid)If our love died (nymph then virgin)Would that be the worst thing? (Nurse then a servant)For somebody (just an appendage)I thought was my saviour (live to attend him)You sure make me do (so that)A whole lot of labour (he never lifts a finger)The calloused skin on my hands (24∕7)Is cracking (baby machine)If our love ends (so he can live out)Would that be a bad thing? (His picket fence dreams)And the silence (it's not an act of love)Haunts our bed chamber (if you make her)You make me do too much labour