Monday's Poetry: "Sunday Morning Coming Down"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

Occasionally I like to highlight song lyrics as the featured "poetry" of the week, and while I fully understand that there are still poets scribbling great thoughts and emotions that aren't put to music, that doesn't detract from the reality that many great poets are, in fact, songwriters and lyricists.

Today I would like to spotlight an amazing poet and songwriter from my generation, Kris Kristofferson. Though some will undoubtedly argue that "Me and Bobby McGee" was his most memorable effort, I remain a fervent fan of "Sunday Morning Coming Down." Kristofferson leads us down a city street - sharing the sights, and sounds, and smells - of a hungover Sunday morning. His descriptive powers are as tight and masterful as they are emotive.

Just try reading the lines that follow without hearing Johnny Cash. Just try!

Sunday Morning Coming Down
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.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

I'd smoked my brain the night before,
On cigarettes and songs I'd been pickin'.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid,
Cussin' at a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed the empty street,
'n caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken.
And it took me back to somethin',
That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.

In the park I saw a daddy,
With a laughin' little girl who he was swingin'.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
And listened to the song they were singin'.
Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'.
And it echoed through the canyons,
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.