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 of the end
we live again
oh, I grow weary of the end
oh, hungry days
in the footsteps of fools
gazing alone through
sex-painted windows
dredging the lake
drunk libertines
stink like colognes from
a new-fangled wasteland
the end of the end
we live again
oh, I grow weary of the end
love is a plague
in a mix-matched 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 of the end
we live again
oh, I grow weary of the end