| Well I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt
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| And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad so I had one more for desert
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| Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes and found my cleanest dirty
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| shirt
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| Then I washed 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 smoke my brain the night before on cigarettes and songs that I’ve been
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| pickin'
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| And I lit my first and watched the small kid cussin' at the can that he’s
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| kickin'
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| Then I crossed the empty street and caught
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| The Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken
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| And it took me back to something that I’d lost somehow somewhere along the way
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| On the Sunday morning sidewalk wishing Lord that I was stoned
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| Cause there’s something in a Sunday makes a body feel alone
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| There ain’t nothing sure to dying half as lonesome as the sound
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| Of the sleepin' city sidewalk Sunday morning coming down
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| In the park I saw a daddy with the laughin' little girl that he was swingin'
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| And I stopped beside a Sunday school and listened to the song that they were
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| singin'
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| Then I headed down the street and somewhere far away a lonesome bell was ringin'
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| And it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing dreams of yesterday
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| On the Sunday morning sidewalk…
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| On the Sunday morning sidewalk… |