Foxey Lady

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

footsteps dressed in red

And the wind whispers Mary

A broom is drearily sweeping

up the broken pieces of yesterdays life

Somewhere a queen is weeping

Somewhere a king has no wife

And the wind, it cries Mary

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


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