Mill worker houses lined up in a row,
another southern sunday morning blow
Beneath the steeple all the people have begun
shakin' hands with the man who grips the gospel gun
While the quiet prayer, the smell of dinner on the ground
heals up the morning air, ain't nothin' sweeter around

I can almost hear my mama pray:
"Oh lord forgive us when we doubt,"
another sacred sunday in the south

A ragged rebel flag flies high above it all
poping in the wind like an angry cannon ball
NOW The holes of history are cold and still,
but they STILL smell the powder burnin' and they probably always will

And on the old town square under the barber shop pole,
they sat me up in the chair when I was four years old

I can almost hear my papa say:
"Won't you hold still son, stop squirmn' around
another SOUTHERN sundays coming down"

(Instrumental break)

I can almost hear the old folks say:
"You'll make it big one day, you'll leave this town,"
another lazy sunday you can bank around

(Instrumental break)

I can feel the evening sun go down,
and all the lights in the houses one by one go out
Softly in the distance nothing stirs about
and the night is filled with the sound of a whipper-will

What a sunday in the south