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 it 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

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 won't be the last"

The traffic lights they turn up blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags on downstream
'Cos the life that they lived now is dead
And the wind it screams Mary

Will the wind ever remember
All the names it has blown in the past?
And with this crutch, its old age and its wisdom
It whispers, "No, this won't be the last"
And the wind it cries Mary

And the wind it whispered Mary