Frontwards

I am the only one

Searching for you

And if I get caught

Well, then the search is through

And the stories you hear

You know they never add up

I hear the natives fussin' at the data chart

Be quiet, the weather's on the night news

Empty homes, plastic combs

Stolen rooms are the alloy of chrome

I've got style

Miles and miles

So much style that it's wasting

So much style that it's wasting

So much style that it's wasting

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 crumblin' like a dirt-clod hold

Your cigarette cuts to the inside

Empty homes, plastic combs

Stolen rooms are the alloy of chrome

I've got style

Miles and miles

So much style that it's leaving

This pattern's torn and we're weaving

This pattern's torn and we'll weave it