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 fucking 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 cracking
if our love ended, would that be a bad thing?
and the silence haunts our bed chamber
you make me do too much labour