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...
Antique 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 its wasted
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
Antique 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