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 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

All Paris is stale And it's war if we fail

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

Their souls are crumbling Like a dirt clot hold

Your cigarette cuts the inside

Empty homes, plastic cones

Stolen rims all out of your chrome

I've got style, miles and miles

So much style that it's leaving

It's Battlestone and we're weaving

It's Battlestone and we're weaving