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 fussin' 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 Ive got style, miles and miles,
so much style that its 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,
Well ive got style, miles and miles
So much style that its leavin
It's pattern's torn and we're weavin'
This battle's torn and we're weavin'
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