Well I woke up Sunday morning knowing,
I hold my head that it didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
so I had one more for dessert.
And I fumbled through my closet,
tore my clothes,
found my cleanest dirty shirt.
And I shaved my face and combed my hair,
stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
Well I smoked my bread the night before,
cigarettes and songs that I'd been picking.
But I lit my first and watched the small
kid cussing at a can that he'd been kicking.
And I crossed the empty street,
caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken.
And it took me back to something that
I'd lost somehow somewhere along the way.
On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
which had lowered the level stone.
But there's something in the Sunday that
makes a body feel alone.
And it's nothing short of down to die.
And it's lonesome as it sounds.
On the street, the city's on a night walk.
Sunday morning coming down.
In
the park,
I saw a daddy with a laughing little girl who he was swinging.
And I stopped beside her Sunday school,
listened to the song that they were singing.
And I headed back for home,
somewhere far away, a lonely bell was ringing.
And I heard a steady echo through the canyons,
like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
which had lowered the level stone.
But there's something in the Sunday that
makes a body feel alone.
And it's nothing short of down to die.
And it's lonesome as it sounds.
I was sleeping in the city's outside room.
Sunday morning coming down.