After all the jacks are in their boxes
and the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on
down the street footsteps dressed in red
And the wind whispers Mary
A broom is drearily sweeping up
the broken pieces of yesterdays life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind, it cries Mary
The traffic lights, they turn, uh,
blue tomorrow and shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags down stream
'cause the life that lived is, is dead
And the wind screams Mary
Uh-will the wind ever remember the names
it has blow in the past?
And with this crutch, its old age,
and its wisdom it whispers no, this will be the last
And the wind cries Mary