It's 5 past 3 in the morning,
The cops are calling on a seedy backstreet door.
"It smells like massage oils and cigarettes"
Broken dreams and stale regrets.
Just a young strung out girl,
With nothing to prove or a care in the world.
Who says she's "sick of all the sad songs on the radio."
Sick of this town time to pack her bags and go, yeah.
Black city's got the best of me.
I'm sick of living life in world war three.
Like hearing bird song in MP3.
Like watching sunsets in low fidelity.
We hit the road with nowhere to go.
Just drive on through until the gas light shows.
When we look at each other know there's no turning back.
In the rear view mirror see the sky turn black.
All we see are bad intentions.
All we hear are lies.
When the city breaks down and there's no one around we won't need no alibis.
No alibis.
Black city got the best of me,
I'm sick of living life in world war three.
Black city got the best of me strung up in another catastrophe.
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