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
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