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 fire’s growing, it’s exponential
Stretching up her helium latex
The seconds are days, and then the shoulder
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
Putting in 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