I am the only one
Searching for you
And if I get caught
Well, 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 weathers on the night news
Empty homes, plastic combs
Stolen rooms are the alloy of chrome
Ive got style
Miles and miles
So much style that its wasting
So much style that its wasting
So much style that its wasting
Now, shes the only one
Who always inhales
Paris is stale
And its 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 combs
Stolen rooms are the alloy of chrome
Ive got style
Miles and miles
So much style that its leaving
This patterns torn and were weaving
This patterns torn and well weave it