Programação do dia: ... não quero falar.

After all the jacks are in their boxesAnd the clowns have all gone to bedYou can hear happiness staggering on down the streetFootsteps dressed in redAnd the wind whispers MaryA broom is drearily sweepingUp the broken pieces of yesterdays lifeSomewhere a queen is weepingSomewhere a king has no wifeAnd the wind,it cries MaryThe traffic lights, they turn,uh,blue tomorrowAnd shine their emptiness down on my bedThe tiny island sags down streamcause the life that lived is,Is deadAnd the wind screams MaryUh-will the wind ever rememberThe names it has blow in the past?And with this crutch,it's old age,and it's wisdomIt whispers no,this will be the lastAnd the wind cries Mary.