Af ter all the jacks are in their (F)box es

and the (Bb7)clowns have all gone to (F)bed,

you can hear (Bb7)hap pi ness stag ger ing on down the street,

(G7)foot prints dress in red.

And the (G7)wind

(Bb)whis pers (Eb)Mar (E)y.

A broom is drear i ly (F)sweep ing

up the bro ken piec es of yes ter day’s life.

Some where a queen is (F)weep ing,

some (G7)where a king has no wife.

And the (G7)wind

(Bb)cries

(Eb)Mar (E)y.

Traf fic lights turn blue to (F)mor row,

shin ing emp ti ness down on my (F)bed.

A tin y is land it (F)sags down stream,

’cause the (G7)life that they live is dead.

And the (G7)wind

(Bb)screams

(Eb)Mar (E)y.

Will the wind ev er re (F)mem ber

the (Bb7)names it has blown in the (F)past?

With its (C)crutch, its (Bb7)old age, its wis dom,

it whis pers (G7)no this won’t (Bb)be the last.

And the (G7)wind

(Bb)cries

(Eb)Mar (E)y.