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 for me today.
I smoked my mind the night before with
cigarettes and songs that I'd been picking.
But I lit my first and watched the small
boy cussing at a can that he'd been kicking.
I crossed the empty streets,
caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken.
And it took me back to something that
I lost somewhere somehow along the way.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
oh, I'm wishing, Lord, that I was strong.
Cause there's something in a Sunday
that makes the body feel alone.
Oh, 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 the Sunday school,
listened 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 canyons like
a disappearing dream of yesterday.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing,
Lord, that I was strong.
Cause there's something in a Sunday
that makes the body feel alone.
Oh,
there ain't nothing short of dying,
half as lonesome as the sound
of a sleeping city sidewalk.
Sunday morning coming down.