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 
footsteps 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, uh, blue tomorrow 
and shine their emptiness down on my bed 
The tiny island sags down stream 
'cause the life that lived is, 
is dead 
And the wind screams Mary 
Uh-will the wind ever remember 
the names it has blow 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