From the recording Sundays
Sunday Morning Coming Down (written by Kris Kristofferson, Publisher-COMBINE MUSIC CORP)
Sunday Morning Coming Down was probably the first song I learned when I started the Folk Singer/Songwriter leg of my music journey. I had bought a Best Of Johnny Cash CD but I never listened to anything other than the hits familiar to me until one day I checked the song out.
It struck a chord with my spirit immediately, and for the most part was telling the story of my later years after leaving my family, especially the "cleanest dirt shirt" line.
At first I thought I was stepping out into an area of songs that nobody really wanted to hear but I was wrong, and learned that a lot of people related to this song besides myself. It is also the song that defined the type of songs I most wanted to sing, which were songs about the struggles and defining moments of peoples lives.
I ended up using Willy Nelson's version and a bit of Kris's version and then recently added the guitar intro, which was just stuff I riffed on while introducing the song at a show. It is the longest song I play and although I have tried it on the audience in a shorter form, this is the length they like.
It is a story song, and one of the finest I know.
Lyrics
Sunday Morning Coming Down
(*original lyrics written by 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,
And I fumbled through my closet to try to find my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I shaved my face and combed my hair and stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
Well I smoked my brains the night before on cigarettes, and songs I was picking,
And I lit my first and watched a young boy cussing at a can that he was kicking.
Then I walked across the street and caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken,
And it took me back to someplace, that I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way.
On that Sunday morning sidewalk, wishing Lord that I was stoned,
Cause there's something in a Sunday, to make a body feel alone,
And there's nothing short of dying, half as lonesome as the sound,
Of that sleepy city sidewalk, Sunday morning coming down.
In the park I watched a daddy, with a laughing little girl that he was swinging,
And I stood outside a Sunday school and listened, to the songs that they were singing.
Then I headed back for home and far away I heard a lonely bell was ringing,
And it echoed through the canyons, of the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On that Sunday morning sidewalk, wishing Lord that I was stoned,
Cause there's something in a Sunday, to make a body feel alone,
And there's nothing short of dying, half as lonesome as the sound,
Of that sleepy city sidewalk, Sunday morning coming down.
Loo-do-doo-doo-doo, do-doo-doo.
Loo-do-doo-doo-doo, doo-do-doo.
Loo-do-doo-doo-doo, do-doo-doo.
Doo-do-doo-doo-doo-doo.
And there's nothing short of dying, half as lonesome as the sound,
Of that sleepy city sidewalk, Sunday morning coming down.
*Lyrics adapted from the original form by Rachel-Ross Cambrin.