(Kris Kristofferson)



Well I woke up Sunday morning

With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt

And the beer I had for breakfast wadn't bad

So I had one more for desert

Then I fumbled through my closet to my clothes

And found my cleanest dirty shirt

Then I washed my face and combed my hair

And stumbled down the stairs to greet the day.



Well I'd smoke my brain the night before

With cigarettes and songs that I'd been picking

But I lit my first and watched the small kid

Cursin' at a can that he was kicking

Then across the empty street

I caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken

And it took me back to something

I'd lost somewhere somehow along the way.



On the Sunday morning sidewalk wishing Lord that I was stoned

Cause there's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone

And there's nothing sure to dying half as lonesome as the sound

Of the sleeping city sidewalk and Sunday morning coming down.



In the park I saw a daddy

With the laughing little girl he was swinging

And I stopped beside a Sunday school

And listened to the song 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 wishing Lord that I was stoned

Cause there's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone

And there's nothing sure to dying half as lonesome as the sound

Of the sleeping city sidewalk and Sunday morning coming down.



Om the sleeping city sidewalk and Sunday morning coming down...