Pink Altitude

{heavy distorted synth-bass line,

distant muffled

stadium crowd roar} Sports car speed?

Is that fast? I’m playing Wembley,

is that hard? Talking over the frequency,

keeping the rhythm scarred Drop the names,

bum the smoke, is it coke or is it pride?

The irony is the only thing that’s left inside I pity the

lonely fifty-year-old, the hollowed-out ghost Of all the "fame" that you claim

to love the most

{glitch-shimmer on final line} Listen,

boy, somebody’s gotta say it,

cut to the core I’m Joan of Arc,

the flame, the surge,

the roar You’re just a guy on a horse,

sour in the saddle I’ve got the world,

you’re looking for a battle Just a guy on a horse,

riding out of time The stage is mine,

the anthem is the crime {anthemic high-gain production,

layered ethereal harmony} Plaque on the smile,

blonde in the eyes,

is that Brad? The sad little script of the life that you

had I try to be nice,

but the architecture’s closed The "It Girl" protocol is properly exposed

You want a war?

I’ve got battles on the scale of the sun You’re just a

footnote, the race is already won {rapid-fire vocal chop on final line}

I don’t envy.

I only pity.

The horse is slow.

The city is empty.

Joan of Arc

doesn't

look back.

{beat drops

out, clean sharp synth line,

close-mic whisper}

Sour in your saddle.

100% Tiguidou. The horse is out of the race.

{raw intimate 2am bedroom

studio, stadium roar fading to crystalline note}