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 desert
|
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt
|
And I shaved my face and combed my hair
|
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day
|
Well I'd smoke my brain the night before with cigarettes and songs I'd been picking
|
But I lit my first and watched the small kid coursin' 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 sidewalk wishing Lord that I was stoned
|
Cause there's something in a Sunday makes a body feel alone
|
And there's nothing (sure) short of dying half as lonesome as a sound
|
On the sleeping city sidewalk Sunday morning coming down
|
|
In the park I saw a daddy with the 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 sidewalk...
|
|
-----------------
|
Sunday Morning Coming Down
|
| Ray Price |
