No sleep ‘till Brooklyn.
No sleep ‘till Brooklyn.
Don’t fall on me.
End of passion play, crumbling away, I’m your source of self-destruction.
Shot through the heart and you’re to blame darling: you give love a bad name.
In New York, the people talk and try to make us rhyme, they really hawk, but we just walk because we have no time.
They call us walking corpses, unholy living dead. They had to lock us up, put us in their British hell.
Oh, has the world changed, or have I changed?
If you’ll be my bodyguard, I can be your long lost pal. I can call you Betty, and Betty, when you call me, you can call me Al.
So give me your hands, your hearts, I’m ready! There’s only one direction.
You could have a bumper car, bumping. The amusement never ends.
Revvin’ up your engine, listen to her howlin’ roar.
Chic, posh, and pulsing synth pop are tops for the lads of the furry, fluffy, feathered and/or aquatic creature shop.
I mean, just ask any police officer who happens to be at a local fried carbohydrate treat market.
Do I need to finally say it? Do I need to count it down?