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