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 happiness staggering on downstreet
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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 yesterdays life
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Somewhere a queen is weeping
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Somewhere a king has no wife
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And the wind, it cries MARY
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The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow
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and shine their emptiness down on my bed
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The tiny island sails downstream
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'cause the life they lived is, is dead
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And the wind screams MARY
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Will the wind ever remember
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the names it has blown in the past
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and with its crutch, its old age, and its wisdom
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it whispers "no, this WILL be the last"
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And the wind, cries MARY
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The Wind Cries Mary
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John Mayer |