We are lovers of the Wasteland
The Western malaise
Nobody knows the number of their days
Nobody knows the number of their days
Nobody knows
Nobody knows
I feel your hair on my skin
I'm so glad, babe, that I let you in
I've got your secrets
tattooed on my hand
and they are safe with me, baby
Because I understand
Baby, I understand
We are lovers of the Wasteland
We have been pulled out by our roots
We have been betrothéd to the shadows
plundered of our youth
We have followed our hunches
We have made our way
And nobody knows the number of their days