labour

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Paris Paloma

"Labour" is a song by British singer-songwriter Paris Paloma. more »

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(One, two, three)

Why are you hanging on
So tight
To the rope that I'm hanging from
Off this island?
This was an escape plan (this was an escape plan)
Carefully timed it so that we'd 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 getting fucking tired

The capillaries in my eyes are bursting
If our love died would that be the worst thing?
For somebody that I thought was my saviour
You sure make me do a whole lot of labour
The callous 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

(You make me do too much labour, 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 weaponize the false incompetence
It's dominance under a 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 that I thought was my saviour
You sure make me do a whole lot of labour
The callous 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 than 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 than 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 that I thought was my saviour
You sure make me do a whole lot of labour
The callous 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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