Radio War

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