Frontwards

I am the only one

Searching for you

And if I get caught

Then the search is through

And the stories you hear, you know they never add up

I hear the natives fussing at the data chart

Be quiet, the weather's on the night news

Empty homes

Plastic cones

Stolen rims, are they alloy or chrome?

Well I've got style

Miles and miles

So much style that it's wasted

So much style that it's wasted

So much style that it's wasted

Now, she's the only one

Who always inhales

Paris is stale

And it's war if we fail

And in the migrant hotels, they never sleep, they never will

Their souls are crumbling like a dirt clod, hold

Your cigarette cuts to the inside

Empty homes

Plastic cones

Stolen rims, are they alloy or chrome?

Well I've got style

Miles and miles

So much style that it's leaving

It's pattern's torn and we're weaving

This battle's torn and we're weaving