The String Game

I'm driving the car, but I'm not the owner

I'm moving the car ever so slowly

It hums the engine like science fiction

Crossing the field in staccato

I'm driving the car, but I'm not the owner

I'm moving the car ever so slowly

It hums the engine like science fiction

And crossing the field in staccato

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

The fly is growing, it's exponential

Stretching the fur helium latex

The seconds are days, and then much older

Climbing ladders, up then deflating

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

Jessie’s on it, the end is near

Jessie’s on it, the end is near

Jessie’s on it, the end is near

Jessie’s on it, the end is near

This woman I know, she's ripping paper

Pointing at her mumbling nirvana

She's figured it out, in bits and pieces

The fragments of good outweigh the rocky

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

Jessie’s on it, the pen in her hand

Jessie’s on it, the end is near

Jessie’s on it, the end is near

But knowing that it isn't here

Remembering the balloon man

The balloon man

The balloon man

The balloon man

The balloon man