The story it grows older, 
The story is no story here
I never knew what it is, 
And there's no sign of it ending
As I am it and ought to be, 
They're telling me I am

R: Bowling race car driver, 
   Superficial hitman you're
   On the list at every door, 
   You don't bowl or race fast cars

Composition competition you drive
Just because I don't go, 
To the church where you reside
I might as well go for it, 
The nineties won't be back again
Until I'm forty-eight years old
I can be the hungry, 
As I eat my words again, 
Appealing yet apalling
Rising to my falling, 
I'm going to extreme ends, 
I'm gagging on their scene

R:

You shift, I'm the driver, 
Over time in it's defense, 
I move their car
And for a moment it makes sense, 
But I fail them in the end
In the arms of old age, 
Knowing only one to lose
Feeling nothing more to hide, 
Consider life a forgery
As you're gagging on your scene, 
Admit to fraudulence
Driven to this thought, 
Death is certain, faith is not

R:

Composition competition 
You drive competition
Competition 
I'm losing I fail it in the end