Lyrics labour (RAK session) - Paris Paloma

Why are you hanging on
So tight
To the rope that I'm hanging 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 getting fucking tired (ah)

The capillaries in my eyes are bursting
If our love died, would that be the worst thing? (Ah)
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?
As 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 (oh)

If we had a daughter
I'd watch and could not save her (oh)
The emotional torture (oh)
From the head of your high table (oh)
She'd do what you taught her
She'd meet the same cruel fate
So now I've gotta run (oh)
So I can undo this mistake (oh)
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?
As the silence haunts our bed chamber
You make me do too much labour

All day, every day, therapist, mother, maid
Nymph then 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 virgin, nurse and 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
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?
As the silence haunts our bed chamber
You make me do too much labour