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?

I've got style, miles and miles

So much style that's wasted

So much style that's wasted

So much stuff that is 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

The soil's all crumbling like the dirt clod hole

You're sick of the clots in the inside

Empty homes, plastic cones, stolen rims, are they alloy or chrome?

I've got style, miles and miles, so much style that it's leaving

It's patterned, it's torn, and it's weaving