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"