Sunday Morning

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 smoke 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 on someone’s frying chicken

And 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 of dying

That’s half as lonesome as the sound

Of the sleeping city sidewalk

And Sunday morning coming down