After all the ja cks are in their boxes,
and the clowns have al l gone to bed,
you can hear happiness staggering on Down Street,
footprints dressed in red.
And the wind whispers Mary.
A broom is dre arily sweeping
up the broken pieces of y esterday's life.
Somewhere a Q ueen is weeping,
somewhere a King has no wife.
And the wind it cries Mary.
The traffic lig hts they turn blue tomorrow,
And shine their emptiness down on my bed,
The tiny island s ags downstream
'Cos the life that lived is... is dead.
And the wind screams Mary.
Will the win d ever remember
The names it has b lown in the past,
And with this crutch, its ol d age and its wisdom
It whispers, 'No, this will be the last.'
And The Wind Cries Mary.
