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Well, I woke up Sunday morning |
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With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt |
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And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad |
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So I had one more for dessert |
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Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes |
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And found my cleanest dirty shirt |
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Then I washed my face and combed my hair |
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Stumbled down the stairs to meet the day |
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I'd smoked my mind the night before |
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With cigarettes and songs that I'd been pickin' |
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But I lit my first and watched a small boy |
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[Incomprehensible] at a can that he'd been kicking |
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I crossed the empty street |
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Caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken |
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And it took me back to somethin' |
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That I'd lost somewhere, somehow along the way |
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On a Sunday morning sidewalk |
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I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned |
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'Cause there's something in a Sunday |
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That makes a body feel alone |
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And there ain't nothin' short of dyin' |
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Half as lonesome as the sound |
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Of a sleepin' city sidewalk |
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Sunday mornin' comin' down |
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In the park, I saw a daddy |
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With a laughin' little girl who he was swingin' |
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And I stopped beside a Sunday school |
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Listened to the songs that they were singin' |
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I headed down the road |
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Somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin' |
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And it echoed through the canyons |
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Like a disappearing dream of yesterday |
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On a Sunday morning sidewalk |
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Oh, I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned |
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'Cause there's something about a Sunday |
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That'll make your body feel alone |
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And there ain't nothin' short of dyin' |
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Half as lonesome as the sound |
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Of a sleepin' city sidewalk |
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Sunday mornin' comin' down |
