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...

Antique homes, 
Plastic cones, 
Stolen rims
Are they alloy or chrome?
Well 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 its wasted
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 I've got style, 
Miles and miles
So much style 
That it's leaving
It's pattern's torn 
And we're weaving
This battle's torn 
And we're weaving