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,
footprints dressed in red.
..and the wind whispers Mary.
A broom is drearily sweeping
all 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 their emptiness down on my bed.
The tiny island sags downstream
'cause the life that they 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.