Twenty-Five

25.  Sunday Morning

"Sunday Morning Coming Down"

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 
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 a can that he was kicking. 
Then I walked across the street 
And caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken. 
And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd 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 a body feel alone. 
And there's nothing short a' dying 
That's half as lonesome as the sound 
Of the sleeping city sidewalk 
And Sunday morning coming down. 

In the park I saw a daddy 
With a laughing little girl that he was swinging. 
And I stopped beside a Sunday school 
And listened to the songs they were singing. 
Then I headed down the street, 
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing, 
And it echoed through the canyon 
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday. 

On a Sunday morning sidewalk, 
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned. 
'Cause there's something in a Sunday 
That makes a body feel alone. 
And there's nothing short a' dying 
That's half as lonesome as the sound 
Of the sleeping city sidewalk 
And Sunday morning coming down.