Woke up on Sunday morning
To the sound of stars falling from the sky
Where I once wiped the sleep away
A sulfur now coats my eyes
Sunday morning birds are meant to sing
And butterflies are meant to soar
Children are given to laughter
And lovers are given to adore
Strangers smile at you on the street
Old friends call on the phone
Mimosas and Bloody Marys
King sized beds for weary bones
Sunday morning was not meant for this
For tear stained cheeks and inflamed, red eyes
Not given to moaning mothers
Not given to widowed wives
Where children ask for phones in heaven
And police pull into the drive
Sunday morning fails on it's promise
Sunday morning never arrives
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This makes me cry, Steph. It's awfully good.
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