Frontwards

(álbum: Watery, Domestic - 1992)

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 fussing 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 wasting
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 crumbling 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 leaving
This pattern's torn and we're weaving
This pattern's torn and we're weaving in it