SUNDAY IN THE SOUTH
Writer: Jay Booker

MILLWORKER HOUSES LINED UP IN A ROW
ANOTHER SOUTHERN SUNDAY'S MORNING GLOW
BENEATH THE STEEPLE ALL THE PEOPLE HAVE BEGUN
SHAKIN HANDS WITH THE MAN WHO GRIPS THE GOSPEL GUN
WHILE IN QUIET PRAYER. THE SMELL OF DINNER ON THE GROUND
FILLS UP THE MORNIN AIR, AIN'T NOTHIN SWEETER AROUND

I CAN ALMOST HEAR MY MOMMA PRAY
OH LORD FORGIVE US, WHEN WE DOUBT
ANOTHER SACRED SUNDAY IN THE SOUTH

A RAGGED REBEL FLAG FLIES HIGH ABOVE IT ALL
POPPIN IN THE WIND LIKE AN ANGRY CANNON BALL
NOW THE HALLS OF HISTORY ARE COLD AND STILL
BUT THEY STILL SMELL THE POWDER BURNING AND THEY PROBABLY ALWAYS WILL
AND ON THE OLD TOWN SQUARE UNDER THE BARBER SHOP POLE
THEY SET ME UP IN THE CHAIR WHEN I WAS 4-YEARS OLD
I CANNOT ALMOST HEAR MY PAPA SAY

WON’T YOU HOLD STILL SON STOP SQUIRMIN AROUND
ANOTHER SOUTHERN SUNDAY'S COMIN' 'DOWN

I CAN ALMOST HEAR THE OLD FOLKS SAY
YOU'LL MAKE IT BIG ONE DAY AND YOU’LL LEAVE THIS TOWN
ANOTHER LAZY SUNDAY, THEY’LL BE BACK AROUND

I CAN FEEL THE EVENIN' SUN GO DOWN
AND ALL THE LIGHTS IN THE HOUSES ONE BY ONE GO OUT
SOFTLY IN THE DISTANCE NOTHIN' STIRS ABOUT
AND THE NIGHT IS FILLED
WITH THE SOUND OF A WHIPPERWHILL
ON A SUNDAY IN THE SOUTH ALLRIGHT

JUST ANOTHER SUNDAY (JUST ANOTHER SUNDAY IN THE SOUTH