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 thumbled through my closet,
for my clothes, 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 brain the night before,
with cigarettes and songs we been picking.
And I lit my first and stopped to watch,
a small kid with a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed an empty street,
and caught the Sunday smell of someone
frying chicken.
And then it took me back to something,
that I lost, somewhere, somehow along the way.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
wishing Lord that I was stoned.
Cause there's something in a Sunday,
that makes somebody feel alone.
And it's nothing sure but dying,
half as lonesome as the sound
of a sleeping city sidewalk,
when Sunday morning coming down.
In a park I saw a Daddy,
with a laughing little girl, 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 to the canyons,
like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
wishing Lord that I was stoned.
Cause there's something in a Sunday,
that makes somebody feel alone.
And it's nothing sure but dying,
half as lonesome as the sound
of a sleeping city sidewalk,