Sunday morning coming down

Det finns inte en låt som bättre beskriver fenomenet söndagsångest än den här av Kris Kristofferson.

Jag ska inte göra det till en vana att posta hela låttexter här, men denna är för bra (och alldeles för rätt idag) för att inte presenteras i sin helhet:

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
And I shaved my face and combed my hair,
And 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,
And caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken,
And it took me back to something,
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 morning coming 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 morning coming down