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After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness slide on downstream
Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers Mary
A 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 moans Mary
The traffic lights they'll turn all blue tomorrow
And shine an emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags on downstream
'Cause the life that was there is dead
And the wind howls Mary
Will the wind ever remember
The names it has blown in the past
Or with its crutch, its old age and its wisdom
It whispers, no, this will be the last
So the wind cries Mary
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