Sunday Morning

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 cloths 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 thinking. But I left my purse and wached a small kid playing with a can he was kicking. Then I walked across the street and caught the Sunday smell of someone's frying chicken. Lord 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. Because there's something in a Sunday that makes a 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.