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 fussin' 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 Ive got style, miles and miles,
|
so much style that its wasted,
|
so much style that its wasted
|
so much style that its waste---------ed
|
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 ive got style, miles and miles
|
So much style that its leavin
|
It's pattern's torn and we're weavin'
|
This battle's torn and we're weavin'
|
|
|
|
-----------------
|
frontwards
|
| pavement |
