After all the jacks are in their boxes,
and the clowns have all gone to bed,
you can hear happiness staggering on Down Street,
fo otprints dressed in red.
And the wi nd whispers Mar y.
A broom is drearily sweeping
up the broken pieces of yesterday's life.
Somewhere a Queen is weeping,
somew here a King has no wif e.
And the w ind it cries Mar y.
The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow,
And shine their emptiness down on my bed,
The tiny island sags downstream
'Cos the l ife that lived is... is dead.
And the w ind screams Mar y.
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 will be the last .'
And The W ind Cries Mar y.
