There's a smell of Sunday in the air
roast beef, two veg and
vicars everywhere,
there's the 'sally army' with the band
marching on,
I'd give a hand,
but mine are tied to eggs
I should have fried.

She has breakfast on the lawn, flakes, I think, made out of corn and tea from China, I have wine (communion) a cheeky little vintage from a vintner in the town.

There's a taste of sin that floats on by, the sinners maybe getting high on bible verse,
the bells are worse, ****** dang, ****, they're out of tune if I'm not wrong,
but putting all my moans aside, it's Sunday so
'abide with me'
She,
has other plans,
wash the dishes, clean the pans, dust the table, shine the floor.

Sunday
is what
Sunday's for.