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