After all the jacks are in their boxes

and the clowns have all gone to bed

You can hear happiness staggering on downstreet

footprints 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 blue tomorrow

and shine their emptiness down on my bed

The tiny island sails downstream

'cause the life they lived is, 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