Did the wine make her dream

of the far distant spring

or a bed full of hens

or the ghost of a friend



All the while that she wept

she'd a gun by her bed

and a letter he wrote

from a dry, foundered boat



And the train track will take

all the wounded ones home

and I'll be alone

fare thee well, Sara Jones



Now we lie on the floor

while the radio war

finds its way through the air

of the dead market square



And a beast never seen

licks its red talons clean

Sara curses the cold,

"no more snow, no more snow"