Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
And I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.


I'd smoked my brain the night before
With cigarettes and songs I'd been picking.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid.
'Cause at the can that he was kicking.
Then I across the street,
And caught the Sunday smell of someone's frying chicken.
And it took me back to something that I'd lost,
Somehow,somewhere along the way.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday

That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing shorter than dying

Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleeping city sidewalk.
Sunday morning coming down.


In the park I saw a daddy
With a laughing little girl that he was swinging.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the songs they were singing.

Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing,
And it echoed through the canyon
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.


On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short than dying

Half as lonesome as the sound

On the sleeping city sidewalk

And Sunday morning coming down.