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.
