Labour Lyrics by Paris Paloma is latest English song with music also given by Paris Paloma. Labour song lyrics are written by Paris Paloma.
Labour Song Detail
| Song Name: | Labour |
| Singer: | Paris Paloma |
| Composer: | Paris Paloma |
| Lyrics by: | Paris Paloma |
| Music Label: | Paris Paloma, Nettwerk Music Group |
Labour Lyrics
Why are you hanging on?
So tight
To the road that I’m headed 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 f**king 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 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
Apologies from my tongue
And never yours
Busy lapping from a flowing cup
And stabbing me 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 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 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
All day, every day: therapist, mother, maid
If our love died, would that be the worst thing?
Nymph then a virgin; Nurse than 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 cracking
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