Frontwards (Live 1992)

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

Going down

Goin' down

Touch me? Someone, touch me