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"