Sunday Mornin' 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 flummed in my closet, drew my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt.

And 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.

And I walked across the street and caught the Sunday smell of someone's frying chicken.

And Lord it took me 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 a body feel alone

And there's nothing sure to die in That's half as lonesome as the sound

Of a 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 canyons 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 of dying That's half as lonesome as the sound

Of a sleeping city side wall And Sunday morning coming down.