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I am the only one |
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Searching for you |
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And if I get caught |
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Well, then the search is through |
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And the stories you hear |
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You know they never add up |
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I hear the natives fussin' at the data chart |
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Be quiet, the weather's on the night news |
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Empty homes, plastic combs |
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Stolen rooms are the alloy of chrome |
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I've got style |
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Miles and miles |
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So much style that it's wasting |
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So much style that it's wasting |
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So much style that it's wasting |
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Now, she's the only one |
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Who always inhales |
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Paris is stale |
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And it's war if we fail |
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And in the migrant hotels |
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They never sleep, they never will |
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Their souls are crumblin' like a dirt-clod hold |
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Your cigarette cuts to the inside |
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Empty homes, plastic combs |
|
Stolen rooms are the alloy of chrome |
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I've got style |
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Miles and miles |
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So much style that it's leaving |
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This pattern's torn and we're weaving |
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This pattern's torn and we'll weave it |
