Songtexte Labour (Audiotree Live) - Paris Paloma feat. Audiotree

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 let me go
And dive into the waves below

Who tends the orchards? Who fixes up the gable?
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 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 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 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 calloused 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, 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 (all day, every day, therapist, mother, maid)
Are bursting (nymph then virgin, nurse and a servant)
If our love died, would that be the worst thing?
For somebody I thought (just an appendage, live to attend him)
Was my saviour (so that he never lifts a finger)
You sure make me do a whole lot of labour

The calloused skin (24∕7, baby machine)
On my hands is crackin' (so he can live out his picket fence dreams)
If our love ends, would that be a bad thing?
And the silence (it's not an act of love if you make her)
Haunts our bed chamber
You make me do too much labour