It's crowded, this train car. Stuffed like elastic bands In an old jam jar. While the breath of eight billion strangers Is some kind of metaphor For the hallway of my old apartment building, It seems fitting that there's a man outside Wearing sunglasses and holding a tiny rocket In his hand. But we're all in here. In a glass jar.. And the rocket is made of titanium. And to get it off the ground will mean Our jar will never come back around. My friends and I can't buy what he's selling Because what he's selling was never for sale. He's got his gold watch And his Presidential friend, that he bought, And they're just dumb enough to throw it.