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 in the footsteps of fools    Gazing alone through sex-painted windows    Dredging the night, drunk libertines    Stink like 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    O I grow weary of the end