The String Game کے بول

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