| The story it grows older, the story is no story here
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| I never knew what it is, and there’s no sign of it ending
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| As I am it and ought to be, they’re telling me I am
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| Bowling race car driver, superficial hitman you’re
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| On the list at every door, you don’t bowl or race fast cars
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| Composition competition you drive
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| Just because I don’t go, to the church where you reside
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| I might as well forget it, the nineties won’t be back again
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| Until i’m forty-eight years old
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| I can be the hungry, as i eat my words again, appealing yet appalling
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| Rising to my falling, I’m going to extreme ends, I’m gagging on their scene
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| You shift, I’m the driver, over time in it’s defense, I move their car
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| And for a moment it makes sense, but I fail them in the end
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| In the arms of old age, knowing only one to lose
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| Feeling nothing more to hide, consider life a forgery
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| As you’re gagging on your scene, admit to fraudulence
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| Driven to this thought, death is certain, faith is not
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| Composition competition you drive competition
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| Competition I’m losing I fail it in the end |