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 oh the end we live again oh i grow weary of the end oh hungry days and the footsteps of fools gazing alone through sex painted windows dredging the night drunk libertines stink like a colognes from a newfangled 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 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 oh the end we live again oh i grow weary of the end2