Sunday Morning Coming Down

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.

Then I washed my face and combed my hair

And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

I'd smoked my mind the night before

With cigarettes and songs I'd been picking.

But I lit my first and watched a small kid

Playing with a can that he was kicking.

Then I walked across the street

And caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken.

And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd 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 a body feel alone.

And there's nothing short a' dying

That's half as lonesome as the sound

Of the sleeping city sidewalk

And 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 down the street,

And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing,

And it echoed through the canyon

Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

On a 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 a' dying

That's half as lonesome as the sound

Of the sleeping city sidewalk

And Sunday morning coming down.