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 [bad word] 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 [bad word] 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 [bad word] down.