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.