Paris Paloma

LABOUR (the cacophony)

Leggi il Testo,la Traduzione in Italiano, scopri il Significato e guarda il Video musicale di LABOUR (the cacophony) di Paris Paloma contenuta nell'album LABOUR (the cacophony). “LABOUR (the cacophony)” è una canzone di Paris Paloma. LABOUR (the cacophony) Lyrics.

TESTO - Paris Paloma - LABOUR (the cacophony)

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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
24/7 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


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' fucking 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


Apologies from my tongue, 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 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
24/7 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
24/7 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, then 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 calloused skin on my hands is crackin' (24/7 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

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