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 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 the emptyness down on my bed. The tiny island sags downstream. 'Cause the life that 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