| She is pressing foot to pedal
|
| She is zooming straight away
|
| She is swimming in the jukebox
|
| Of the screaming, driving day
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| She’s about the age of Mary
|
| When she had her wonderboy
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| She’s an alcohol enthusiast
|
| Whose dad is unemployed
|
| She is wrapped around the steering wheel
|
| She is focused on her goal
|
| She is pulling out the vomit
|
| From the bottom of my soul
|
| I can’t tell if I see sunshine
|
| Or only the city’s glow
|
| I catch the wind in jelly jars
|
| To listen to it blow
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| I’m so cautious I get nauseous
|
| As my highway stretches out
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| My little pupils dilate
|
| In the shadow of a doubt
|
| I see billboards, I see wagons
|
| And I see she’s gone to sleep
|
| The gap to faith is tiny
|
| But I can’t begin to leap
|
| We are sick and we are injured
|
| Terrible and torn in half
|
| We are driving, we are trading in
|
| A whimper for a laugh
|
| We are tuneless, we are toneless
|
| Our speedometer sings
|
| We are stained, we are Starbucks coffe
|
| We are jacks and queens and kings
|
| We have but one navigator
|
| And a single one to drive
|
| We are tending to pretend
|
| We’re at the endings of our lives |