Frontwards

I am the only one Searching for you And if I get caught Well, 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 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 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