By Niall Horan

White lips, pale face
Breathing in snowflakes
Burnt lungs, sour taste
Light's gone, day's end
 [bad word] to pay rent
Long nights, strange men

And they say
She's in the Class Team
Stuck in her daydream
Been this way since 18
But lately her face seems
Slowly sinking, wasting
 [bad word] like pastries
They scream
The worst things in [bad word] free to us

And they scream
The worst things in [bad word] 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
Angels to fly