Six-thirty Sunday morning
And it's raining
The kind of rain
You only find on the west side
Six-thirty Sunday morning
Someone's jogging
The way he runs
Makes me think he's from the east side
It's beautiful
You can get in tune
And see more life alone
On a Central Park morning
Than on a country afternoon
Six-thirty early autumn
Leaves have fallen
Let 'em sleep
They will keep my secret
I wish there were more rainy Sundays
To make up for Saturday nights
I wish there were more rainy Sundays
To make up for Saturday nights
