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
Tenha acesso a benefícios exclusivos no App e no Site
Chega de anúncios
Badges exclusivas
Mais recursos no app do Afinador
Atendimento Prioritário
Aumente seu limite de lista
Ajude a produzir mais conteúdo