Singing Gospel from Raymond Little by Raymond Little

Sunday morning, singing gospel.
Stay up all night at a brothel.
My moms calling, I’m not answering.
To busy watching dirty dancing.
I’m in a closet with a stripper,
she’s getting upset I won’t kiss her.
“Are you gay man? Just be honest,
what’s with the fingernail polish?”
‘’I gotta go, hey, here is my number.
I guess blue is just my favorite color.’’
“Do you work Monday?” I said that “I do,
I’ll take it off though so you don’t have to.’’


Sunday morning trying to sleep in,
she’s in the bathroom dry heaving.
I hear it echo across the tile
like a fender amplifier.
My dads yelling “Whats that racket?!”
It brings me back like a starter jacket.
Ibuprofen and a High Life,
Dylan’s singing about his ex wife.
Idiot wind blows out of a speaker.
She skipped dinner because I didn’t feed her.
Sometimes I feel like a dead letter.
Sometimes I think we could do better.

Sunday Morning, sun shining.
Still gotta look for a silver lining.
My heads beating like a bass drum.
Early today, had a threesome.
They called a taxi, what a wild ride.
They said that I can’t walk (baby) it’s cold outside.
After the storm calmed, before the sunrise,
we walked for miles, because our phones died.
She finally asked me “do you think she is pretty?”
Well rehearsed I said “not really,”
On a road that we’ve never been down,
in the outskirts of her hometown.

• Rock
• Rock & Roll
• alternative
• folk
• political
• songwriter
• Marquette