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 des-sert
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 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 the can that he was kicking
then I walked across the street
and caught the Sunday smell of someone's frying chicken
and lord it took me back to some-thin 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 the body feel alone
and there's nothing short of dying
that's half as lonesome as the sound
of the sleeping city sidewalks
and Sunday morning coming down
in the park I saw a daddy
with a laughing little girl that he was swinging
and listened to the songs that they were singing
then I headed down the street
and somewhere far away a lonely bell was ring - ing
and it echoed through the canyons
like our disappearing dreams of yester - day
on a Sunday morning sidewalk
I'm wishing lord, that I was stoned
cause there's something in a Sunday
that makes the body feel alone
and there's nothing short of dying
that's half as lonesome as the sound
of the sleeping city sidewalks
and Sunday morning coming down