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Though the days of the week
Wear the same empty face
There's a day in the week
I would like to replace
It's the Sunday
So smuggly pretending to be
Something more than a day
That has nothing for me
I've reasons to say
Sunday's not my day

I'm harrassed by its crowds
How they passively file
An expressionless crowd
With a time-wearied smile
Though I walk through its streets
My direction's unknown
Sunday's worthless to one
Who must spend it alone
It's always this way
Sunday's not my day

You must work this day Sunday
The one day I'm free
This is why Sunday seems
So oppressive to me
If only you were near
You would open my eyes
I'd be ready to like
All the things I despise

All the Sundays in spring
Life in blue everywhere
All our cares taking wing
As we breath, as we dare
Lying there in the grass
Watching children at play
Watching lovers who pass
Like the wind on it's way
The skies deep and blue
They would smile for you

We would dance
Through the streets
We would join this parade
We would do all the things
For which Sunday is made
Without trying to know
What tomorrow will be
Having only one hope
That together we'd see
Our Sunday again
Sunday back again

Of the people I see
In their Sunday disguise
There are those who believe
They are thoughtful and wise
Some are going to church
For appearances sake
Some are willing to give
Half as much as they make
Some will sleep the whole day
Having nowhere to go
Some will visit a grave
Some will put on a show
Well rehearsed in their part
They will pass review
Some will make Sunday love
To have something to do

Yet, I envy their joy

When their Sundays arrive
They frolic, they play
I'm less than alive
What more can I say?
Sunday's not my day.

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