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