After all the jacks are in their boxes 
And the clowns have all gone to bed 
You can hear happiness standin' on down the street 
Footprints dressed in red 

And the wind whispers Mary 

broom is drearily sweeping 
Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life 
Somewhere a queen is weeping 
Somewhere a king has no wife 

And the wind it cries Mary 

The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow 
And shine the emptiness down on my bed 
The tiny island sends downstream 
Because the light that there was is dead 

And the wind screams Mary 

Will the wind ever remember 
The names it has blown in the past? 
And with its [bad word]  its old age, it's wisdom 
It whispers no, this will be the last 

And the wind cries Mary