I can barely feel the sheets with all these crumbs down in my bed
How can I get to sleep with all this buzzin' in my head
And who'd have ever thought I'd not complain about a mess
Servers me right I guess
This is what I get
For eatin' crackers with my gin
And drinkin' in my Sunday dress

The telephone is by the bottle, which is always by my bed
From time to time I give it a rattle to make sure that it's not dead
I will wait here for your call till I run out of cigarettes
I love to play the part of the damsel in distress
Flickin' ashes in my coffee
Drinkin' in my Sunday dress

Well I抳e been on the road to this and I've been on the way to this
But who'd a'think it'd come to this
Don't let on you've seem me like this

My old transistor's sounding just as twangy as a Fender
My radiator growls like Elvis after Sunday dinner
I've drained my last Tequila and I've thrown away the blender
I've poured out all the wine
From how on nothin' but the best
Cognac and Pasty Cline while drinkin' in my Sunday dress

Well I抳e been on the road to this and I've been on the way to this
I surely ain't a hypocrite
I've had my fun and now I must confess

Our reverend is a kingly soul
Repents 'em on a dime
His Bible is not inked in gold
He's not the cheatin' kind
One Sunday after meetin'
I was in the greetin' line
He said I've seen you from the altar
Gulpin' down communion wine
Just remember who's beside you
When it's no business of mine