Beck

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 in the footsteps of fools
Gazing alone through sex-painted windows
Dredging the night, drunk libertines
Stink like 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
O I grow weary of the end