labour Lyrics – Paris Paloma
Singer: Paris Paloma
Title: labour
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
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#cking 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 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 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 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 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
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
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
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Lyrics Paris Paloma – labour
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