|
White lips, pale face |
|
Breathing in snowflakes |
|
Burnt lungs, sour taste |
|
Light's gone, day's end |
|
Struggling to pay rent |
|
Long nights, strange men |
|
And they say |
|
She's in the Class A Team |
|
Stuck in her daydream |
|
Been this way since 18 |
|
But lately her face seems |
|
Slowly sinking, wasting |
|
Crumbling like pastries |
|
And they scream |
|
The worst things in life come free to us |
|
Cos we're just under the upperhand |
|
And go mad for a couple of grams |
|
And she don't want to go outside tonight |
|
And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland |
|
Or sells love to another man |
|
It's too cold outside |
|
For angels to fly |
|
Angels to fly |
|
Ripped gloves, raincoat |
|
Tried to swim and stay afloat |
|
Dry house, wet clothes |
|
Loose change, bank notes |
|
Weary-eyed, dry throat |
|
Cool girl, no phone |
|
And they say |
|
She's in the Class A Team |
|
Stuck in her daydream |
|
Been this way since 18 |
|
But lately her face seems |
|
Slowly sinking, wasting |
|
Crumbling like pastries |
|
And they scream |
|
The worst things in life come free to us |
|
Cos we're just under the upperhand |
|
And go mad for a couple of grams |
|
And she don't want to go outside tonight |
|
And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland |
|
Or sells love to another man |
|
It's too cold outside |
|
For angels to fly |
|
Angels to fly |
|
And they say |
|
She's in the Class A Team |
|
Stuck in her daydream |
|
Been this way since 18 |
|
But lately her face seems |
|
Slowly sinking, wasting |
|
Crumbling like pastries |
|
And they scream |
|
The worst things in life come free to us |
|
Cos we're just under the upperhand |
|
And go mad for a couple of grams |
|
And she don't want to go outside tonight |
|
And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland |
|
Or sells love to another man |
|
It's too cold outside |
|
For angels to fly |
|
For angels to fly |
|
To fly |
|
For angels to die |
