these withered hands

have dug for a dream

sifted through sand

and leftover nightmares

over the hill

a desolate wind

turns shit to gold

and blows my soul crazy



the end

o the end

we live again

o i grow weary of the end



o hungry days

the footsteps of fools

gazing alone

through sex-painted windows

dredging the night

drunk libertines

stink like a colognes

from the newfangled wasteland



the end

o the end

we live again

o i grow weary of the end



love is a plague

in a mix-match parade

where the castaways look so deranged

when will the 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

of the end

we live again

oh i grow weary of the end