I was sitting around on a Sunday morn, I had nothing left to lose 'Cuz I've finished off my bottle, and now I'm drinking my last brew And there's something wrong with a Sunday morn without a crooked point of view So I grab the truck and twenty bucks, I'm gonna see what I can do. But they don't sell beer on Sunday, said the man at the grocery story If I had my way I'd be drunk right now, but the chains are on the door We'd used to walk up to Sandy Cross for the liquer and the wine But I ain't been back since the moonshine made my pappy blind. Lord there's something wrong with this Sunday morn, but I know how to make it right I'm headed to the church next door, gonna pick me up some wine Brother, won't you pass that cup, can't you see that I've gone dry? And if I can't taste that sweet, sweet, stuff I know I'm bound to die. They don't sell beer on Sunday, I'd buy it if I could I'd buzz on at a restaurant, but I can't afford no food So preacher won't you give me something for my eternal soul Till six o'clock on Monday morn when I can buy it from the store. |
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