Great one, take one.
I washed my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt.
And I washed my face and combed my hair.
Stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I smoked my mind the night before.
The cigarettes and songs I'd been picking.
But I lit my first and watched the small kid
playing with the 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 the body feel alone.
And there's nothing short of dying
that's half as lonesome as the sound
of a 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 that 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 the body feel alone.
And there's nothing short of dying
that's half as lonesome as the sound
of a sleeping city sidewalk.
And Sunday morning coming down.