Wm. Pollock's Pianobook

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Kris Kristofferson, Johnny Cash

Well, I [C]woke up Sunday morning, 
with no [F]way to hold my head, that didn't [C]hurt
and the [C]beer I had for breakfast, 
wasn't [Am]bad, so I had one more for des-[G7]-sert
than I [C]thumbed through my closet, 
for my [F]clothes, found my cleanest, dirty [C]shirt
than I [G7]washed my face and combed my hair, 
stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

Well I smoked my brain the night before, 
with cigarettes and songs that we been picking
And I lit my first and stopped to watch, 
a small kid with a can that he was kicking
Than I crossed an empty street, 
and caught the Sunday-smell of someones frying chicken
and it took me back to something, 
that I lost somewhere somehow along the way

On a Sunday morning [F]sidewalk, 
wishing Lord that I was [C]stoned
Cause there is something in a [G7]Sunday, 
that makes somebody feel a-[C]-lone
And it's nothing sure but [F]dying, 
half as lone some as the [C]sound
of a sleeping city [G7]sidewalk, 
when Sunday morning coming [C]down

In a park I saw a Daddy, 
with a laughing little girl he was swinging
And I stopped beside a Sunday school, 
and listened to the songs that they were singing
Than I headed back for home, 
and some where far away a lonely bell was ringing
And it echoed to the canyons, 
like the disappearing dreams of yesterday