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