Well I woke up Sunday morning
with no way to hold my head,
it 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 and
stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I'd smoked my brain the night before on
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 this 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 short of dying,
half as lonesome as the sound,
on the sleeping city sidewalks,
Sunday morning coming down.
In the park I saw a daddy
with a laughing little girl who he was swinging.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school and listened to a sond that they was singing.
Then I headed back for home and somewhere far away
a lonely bell was ringing.
And it echoes through the canyons
like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On this 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 short of dying,
half as lonesome as the sound,
on the sleeping city sidewalks,
Sunday morning coming down
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