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 through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
And I shaved my face [bad word] my hair,
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

I'd smoked my brain the night before,
On cigarettes and songs 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,
'n 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 the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dying,
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleeping city sidewalks:
Sunday [bad word] down.

In the park I saw a daddy,
With a laughin' little girl who he was swinging.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
And listened to the song they were singing.
Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing.
And it echoed through the canyons,
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos 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 [bad word] down.