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, Sarah 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
Sarah curses the cold,
No more snow, no more snow, no more snow.