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.

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.

Now will that wind ever remember, all those names it has blown in the past. Now with
its crutch, its old age and its wisdom,it whispers "No, this will be the last". 
And the wind cries Mary. Mary... Mary.