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
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”)