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