labour

作曲 : Paris Paloma

(One, two, three)

Why are you hangin' on

So tight

To the rope that I'm hangin' from

Off this island?

This was an escape plan (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' ****in' 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 crackin'

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)

Apologies from my tongue

Never yours

Busy lapping from a 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 crackin'

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, and 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, and 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 (All day, every day: Therapist, mother, maid)

If our love died, would that be the worst thing? (Nymph, then a virgin, nurse, and a servant)

For somebody I thought was my saviour (Just an appendage, live to attend him)

You sure make me do a whole lot of labour (So that he never lifts a finger)

The callous skin on my hands is crackin' (Twenty-four-seven baby machine)

If our love ends, would that be a bad thing? (So he can live out his picket fence dreams)

And the silence haunts our bed chamber (It's not an act of love if you make her)

You make me do too much labour