these withered hands

these withered hands
have dug for a dream
sifted through sand
and leftover nightmares
over the hill
a desolate wind
turns [bad word] 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 -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