The A Team

White lips, pale face
Breathing in snowflakes
Burnt lungs, sour taste

And they say she's in the Class A Team
Stuck in her daydream
Been this way since eighteen 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 upper hand
And go mad for a couple grams
And she don't wanna 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