Tipo de gaita: Diatônica
Tom: F

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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-- sta-gger-ing---
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on down the street
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footprints dressed in red
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And the wind-- whispers Ma-ry
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A  broom is drea-ri-ly--- sweeping
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up the broken pieces of yesterday-s 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-- Ma-ry

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
Uh 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