Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down

(albüm: Have A Little Talk With Myself - 1969)

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 through my closet, for my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt
And I shaved my face and combed my hair, stumbled down the stairs to meet the day

Well I'd smoked my brain the night before with cigarettes and songs that I'd been picking
But I lit my first and watched a small kid cussing at a can, that he was kicking
Then I crossed the empty street and caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken
And it took me back to something, that I'd lost somehow somewhere along the way

On the Sunday morning sidewalks, wishing Lord, that I was stoned
'Cause there's something in a Sunday, makes a body feel alone
And there's nothing short of dying, half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleeping city side walks, 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 song that they were singing
Then I headed back for home and somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing
And it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing dreams of yesterday

On the Sunday morning sidewalks, wishing Lord, that I was stoned
'Cause there's something in a Sunday, makes a body feel alone
And there's nothing short of dying, half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleeping city side walks, Sunday morning coming down