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

Empty homes, [bad word] Stolen rims, are they alloy or chrome?
Well I've got style, miles and miles
So much style that it's wasting

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 [bad word]  like a dirt-clod hold
Your cigarette cupped to the inside

Empty homes, [bad word] 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'll weave it...