Frontwards

I am the only one searchin' 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 Empty homes, plastic cones Stolen rims, are they alloy or chrome? Well, I've got style Miles and miles So much style that it's wastin' So much style and it's wasted So much style and it's wasted 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 cones Stolen rims, are they alloy or chrome? Well, I've got style Miles and miles So much style that it's leavin' This pattern's torn and we're weavin' This pattern's torn and we're weavin' in it