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 in the footsteps of fools Gazing alone through sex-painted windows Dredging the night, drunk libertines Stink like colognes from a new-fangled 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 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 end
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Copy to Clipboard: 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 in the footsteps of fools Gazing alone through sex-painted windows Dredging the night, drunk libertines Stink like colognes from a new-fangled 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 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 end
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