I am the only one searching for you. And if I get caught, then my search is through. And the stories you hear, you know they never add up. I see the natives fussing at the data chart. Be quiet the weather's on the night news. Empty homes, plastic homes, stolen rents, are the alloy chrome. I've got style, miles and miles, so much style that it's wasted. Now she is the only one who always emails. She is the only one who always emails. Paris is still, and it's war if we fail. And in the migrant hotels they never sleep, they never will. The souls are crumbling like a dirt clad hold. The cigarette cup hit to the inside. Empty homes, plastic homes, stolen rents, are the alloy chrome. I've got style, miles and miles, so much style that it's leaving. The patterns torn in where we ballot.