Sunday, January 31, 2010

In memory of an old friend Gary Van Tonder who lived life to the full and felt much like below about Sundays

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 desert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt
And I shaved my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stair to meet the day.
Well, I smoke my brain the night before
With cigarettes and songs that I'd been a picking
But I lit my first and watched the small kid
Cussin' at a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed the empty street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone cookin' chicken
And it took me back to something
That I'd lost somewhow, somewhere along the way.
On a Sunday morning sidewalk
Wishing Lord that I was stoned
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing sure of dying
Half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepy city sidewalk
Sunday morning coming down.
In the park I saw a daddy
With the laughing little girl that he was swinging
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the 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 canyon
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On the Sunday morning sidewalk
Wishing Lord that I was stoned
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing sure of dying
Half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepy city sidewalk
Sunday morning coming down...