Testo 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."