Karaoké Labour Paris Paloma

Why are you hangin' on so tight to the rope that I'm hangin' 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' fuckin' tired

The capillaries in my eyes are burstin'

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 flowing cup and stabbing with your fork

I know you're a smart man and weaponize 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 burstin'

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 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 burstin'

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