(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 wasn't bad, so I had one more for dessert
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
I found my cleanest dirty shirt
Then I washed my face and combed my hair, stumbled down the stairs to greet the day

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

On a Sunday morning sidewalk
(I'm) wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
Cause there's somethin' 'bout a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone
And there ain't nothin' short of dying
Half as lonesome as the sound
Of a sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down

In a park I saw a Daddy with a laughing little girl that he was swinging
And I stopped beside a Sunday school, listened to the songs that they was singing
And then, far away, I heard a lonely bell a-ringin'

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