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

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 of blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness 
down on my bed
The tiny island sails 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 this [bad word] 
its old age and its wisdom
It whispers no this will be the last
And the wind cries mary