I am the only one
|
Searching for you
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And if I get caught
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Well, then the search is through
|
|
And the stories you hear
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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
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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
|
|
-----------------
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Frontwards
|
| Los Campesinos! |
