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, threw my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt
Then I washed my face and combed my hair, stumbled down the stairs to meet the day
I smoked my mind the night before with cigarettes and songs
That I'd been picking
But I lit my first and watched a small boy cussing at a can that he'd been picking
I crossed the empty street, caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken
And he took me back to the street, and I said, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry

I went back to something that I lost somewhere, somehow along the way
On a Sunday morning sidewalk, I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
Cause there's something in a Sunday that makes the body feel alone
There ain't nothing short of dying
Half as lonesome as the sound
Of a 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
To listen to the songs that they were singing
I headed down the road
Somewhere far away
A lonely bell was ringing
And it echoed through the canons
Like a disappearing dream of yesterday
On a Sunday morning sidewalk
Oh, I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
Cause there's something about a Sunday
That'll make your body feel alone
Oh, and there ain't nothing short of dying
Half as lonesome as the sound
Of a sleeping city sidewalk
Sunday morning coming down