These withered hands have dug for a dream
Sifted through sand and leftover nightmares
Over the hill, a desolate wind
Turns *** to gold and blows my soul crazy The end, oh, the end
We live again
Oh, I grow weary of the end Oh, hungry days in the footsteps of fools
Gazing alone through *** painted windows
Dredging the night, drunk libertines
Stink like colognes from a new fangled wasteland The end, oh, the end
We live again
Oh, I grow weary of the end Love is a plague in a mix match parade
Where the castaways look so deranged
When will children learn to let their wildernesses burn
And love will be new, never cold and vacant These withered hands have dug for a dream
Sifted through sand and leftover nightmares The end, oh, the end
We live again
Oh, I grow weary of the end