And after all the Jacks are in their boxes,
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And the clowns have all gone to bed.
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You can hear the happiness staggering on downstream,
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Footprints dressed in red.
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And the wind whispers Mary.
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A broom is drearily sweeping,
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Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life.
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Somewhere a Queen is weepin',
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Somewhere a King has no wife.
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And the wind cries Mary.
|
Mary.
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Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
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The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow,
|
And shine their emptiness down on my bed,
|
Their tiny island sags on downstream,
|
'Cause the life that lived 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 screams Mary.
|
Mary.
|
Mary.
|
|
-----------------
|
The Wind Cries Mary
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Seal |