Contactez-nous

• Artiste: Paris Paloma
• Titre: Labour
Assurez-vous que les corrections sont tout à fait exactes
S'il vous plaît, les mettez en évidence en quelque sorte!
Vous pouvez, par exemple, écrire
INCORRECT: avant la mauvaise ligne
CORRECT: avant la correspondant ligne correcte
Autrement, nous ne pouvons les corriger pas! Merci pour votre aide.
(One, two, three) 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' fuckin' 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 (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 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 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 callous skin on my hands is crackin' (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