Sunday Morning Coming Down
Church bells beat my alarm to my ears
And there ain’t no going back down.
In the fridge there is a carton of orange juice and a can of beer,
a gander at the calendar confirms Busch is today’s breakfast
snatch a flannel from the floor
Pull up some breeches from the hamper
A hat’s thrown on my head
And I’m out the door
I take the long way around town to avoid the Methodists
I cut through an alley taking precautions against the Baptists
I pass the Episcopalian church
I ain’t too sure if there are any of em’in there
By the time I’m down yonder approaching the porch
I’m damn well sure I’m making a mistake
I sit behind the rusted john-boat and smoke a cigarette to clear my head
I splash on cologne from my shirt pocket to hide the stench
I walk into the house to be greeted by a creaky floor
The memory of the smell of pot roast is the only thing that feels welcoming
I take my seat at the table
As the ghosts begin to talk
They ask me about what I know
That new job and so on
I clean my plate
Hug my mama
Daddy tells me he’s proud of me
If he ever meant it
I hit the sidewalk
The good ole boys pass by in their truck
I light up my second
And pray for this day to end