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
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
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
Oh, I grow weary of the end

KORREKTUREN ÃœBERMITTELN