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 the 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 the beast, never seen
Licks its red talons clean.
Sara curses the cold,
"No more snow, no more snow,
No more snow."
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