After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness standing on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers Mary
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind it cries Mary
The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow
And shine the emptyness down on my bed
The tiny island sags downstream
Cause the life that lived is dead
And the wind screams Mary
Will the wind ever remember
The names it has blown in the past, and
With its crutch, its old age, and its wisdom
It whispers no, this will be the last
And the wind cries Mary |