(thanks funkybot) 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 CHORUS BRIDGE: 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 CHORUS
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