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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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An' 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 |
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I'd been pickin' |
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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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And I walked across the street, 'n caught the |
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Sunday smell of someone's fried 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 the Sunday morning sidewalk, |
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Wishing, Lord, that |
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I was stoned. ' |
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Cos there's something in a |
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Sunday, That makes a body feel alone. |
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And there's nothin' short of dyin', |
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Half as lonesome as the sound, |
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On the sleepin' city sidewalks: |
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Sunday mornin' comin' down |
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In the park |
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I saw a daddy, |
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With a laughin' little girl that he was swingin' |
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And I stopped behind a |
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Sunday school, |
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And listened to the songs that they were singin' |
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I headed down the street, |
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And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin' |
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And it echoed through the canyons, |
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Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday |
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On the 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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Cos there's something in a |
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Sunday, That makes a body feel alone |
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And there's nothin' short of dyin', |
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Half as lonesome as the sound, |
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On the sleepin' city sidewalk: |
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Sunday mornin' comin' down |
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On the sleepin' city sidewalk: |
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Sunday mornin' comin' down |
