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
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
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 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








