|
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 of 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 lake
|
drunk libertines
|
stink like colognes from
|
a new-fangled wasteland
|
|
the end of the end
|
we live again
|
oh, I grow weary of the end
|
|
love is a plague
|
in a mix-matched 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 of the end
|
we live again
|
oh, I grow weary of the end
|
|
|
|
-----------------
|
We Live Again
|
Beck |