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