| KEY OF D
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| Well I woke up Sunday morning,
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| with no way to hold my head, that didn’t hurt
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| And the beer I had for breakfast,
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| wasn’t bad — so I had one more for dessert
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| Then I fumbled through my closet,
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| for my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt…
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| And I shaved my face and combed my hair,
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| and stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
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| I’d smoked my brain the night before on cigarettes and songs
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| that I’d been picking
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| But I lit my first, and watched a small kid cursing at a can
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| that he was kicking
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| Then I crossed the empty street and caught the Sunday smell
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| of someone frying chicken
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| And it took me back to something that I had lost somehow,
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| somewhere along the way
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| On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
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| wishing Lord that I was stoned
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| Cause there is something in a Sunday,
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| that makes a body feel alone
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| And there is nothing short of dying,
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| half a lonesome as the sound,
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| as the sleeping city sidewalks,
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| Sunday morning coming down
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| In the park I saw a daddy,
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| with w laughing little girl who he was swinging
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| And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
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| and listened to a song that they were singing
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| Then I headed back for home and somewhere far away
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| a lonely bell was ringing
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| And it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing dreams
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| of yesterday
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| On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
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| wishing Lord that I was stoned
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| 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,
|
| as the sleeping city sidewalks,
|
| Sunday morning coming down
|
| 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,
|
| as the sleeping city sidewalks,
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| Sunday morning coming down |