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 IĄŻll 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"
|
|
-----------------
|
Radio War
|
| Iron & Wine |
