labour (extended cut, RAK session)

[Verse 1]

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

[Pre-Chorus]

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' fucking tired

[Chorus]

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

[Verse 2]

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 weaponise

The false incompetence, it's dominance under a guise

[Pre-Chorus]

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

[Chorus]

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

[Bridge]

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

[Chorus]

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