did the wine make her dream of a far distant stream
or a bed full of hens or a 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 tracks will take all the wounded ones home
and i'll be alone fair thee well sarah james

so we lie on the floor while the radio war
makes its way through the air on a dead market square

and the beast never seen licks its red talons clean
sarah curses the cold no more snow no more snow

--sam beam