Get all 19 Paris Paloma releases available on Bandcamp and save 35%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Cacophony, LABOUR (the cacophony), He Thinks He'll Keep Her (Goodwerks), labour (RAK session), labour (clean version), notre dame, forsaken, It's Called: Freefall, and 11 more.
1. |
LABOUR (the cacophony)
04:07
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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 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
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
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 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 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
|
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2. |
labour
03:57
|
|||
|
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 you words and their sharp sting
And I’m getting 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 ended, would that be a bad thing?
As 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
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 cracking
If our love ended, 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 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
|
||||
3. |
labour (bedroom demo)
04:07
|
|||
|
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 you words and their sharp sting
And I’m getting 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 ended, would that be a bad thing?
As 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
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 cracking
If our love ended, 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 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
|
||||
Paris Paloma London, UK
Paris Paloma is a 23 year old singer-songwriter from the UK.
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