Sunday (Psychic Conversation #9)

It's Sunday, and the world does itself
For all of its faults
And it's explosions of wealth

You, you stand naked
In front of your true love's words
She tells you, she's not seen worse

And the eyes of the world will still burn
And then turn away, on Sunday

This strange world
Yeah, you wear it like a crown
It's beautiful and senseless
But it's tragedy you've found

When, when you look into her eyes
You can tell she's just as ugly
As reflections you despise

The eyes of the world will still burn
And then turn away, on Sunday