(Kris Kristofferson)

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
Then I shaved my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

I'd smoked my brain the night before
With cigarettes and songs that I've been picking
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Cursing at a can that he was kicking.

Then I crossed the empty street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken
And it took me back to something
That I had lost somehow, somewhere along the way.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
'Cause there is something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.

And there is nothing short of dying
Half a lonesome as the sound
Om the sleeping city sidewalks
Sunday morning coming down.

In the park I saw a daddy
With the laughing little girl he was swinging
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to a song that 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
'Cause there is something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.