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 dress 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 their emptiness down on my bed,
The tiny island sags downstream
'Cos 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 this crutch, its old age and its wisdom
It whispers, "No, this will be the last"

And The Wind Cries Mary