Sunday moanin Kitchen...

I woke up Sunday mornin,
with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
My back all out, my knees wont bend, and my left hand  kind of jerks.
I grab my cane and stumble down the hall to the kitchen,
I  fumble with the coffee, and spill it, now I am a bitchin.
I wash my face, and comb my hair,
and stare at the old fart in the mirror.
The dog whines to go outside, but you know I didn't  hear her.
I ache so bad I go sit down and enjoy the smell of coffee brewing.
Suddenly I can't remember,  what I was a  doing.
In my Sunday  moanin  Kitchen,
wishing Lord that I was gone.
It's so hard to want to hang on,
when you hurt and all alone.
In  my Sunday moanin Kitchen,
sippin coffee while I frown.
Just another painful morning,
Sunday Moanin comein Down.