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Well, I woke up |
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Sunday morning |
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With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt. |
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And the beer |
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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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And 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 |
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I'd been picking. |
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But I lit my first and watched a small kid |
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Playing with a can that he was kicking. |
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Then I walked across the street |
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And caught the |
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Sunday smell of someone frying chicken. |
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And Lord, it took me back to something that |
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I'd lostSomewhere, somehow along the way. |
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On a Sunday morning sidewalk, |
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I'm wishing, |
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Lord, that |
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I was stoned.' |
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Cause there's something in a |
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SundayThat makes a body feel alone. |
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And there's nothing short a' dying |
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That's half as lonesome as the sound |
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Of the sleeping city sidewalk |
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And Sunday morning coming down. |
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In the park |
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I saw a daddy |
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With a laughing little girl that he was swinging. |
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And I stopped beside a |
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Sunday school |
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And listened to the songs they were singing. |
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Then I headed down the street, |
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And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing, |
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And it echoed through the canyon |
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Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday. |
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On a Sunday morning sidewalk, |
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I'm wishing, |
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Lord, that |
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I was stoned.' |
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Cause there's something in a |
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SundayThat makes a body feel alone. |
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And there's nothing short a' dying |
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That's half as lonesome as the sound |
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Of the sleeping city sidewalk |
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And Sunday morning coming down. |
