Why do all the bad thoughts always come, on a Sunday morning cigarette? Why is all the sorrow of a word, kept on lock under my silhouette? Is it true that living happy is easy?, cause the shaking hands say different. Is it right to say you're fine, when... all you do is cry to melodies. Why do all the bad thoughts always come, on a Sunday morning cigarette? Why is never easy to hold down, all the feelings seem so remnant If I were to say that I'm not good, would you come and make me soup? Why is it so hard to let the love, spread around the emptiness? I'm never good at lying but I can, make you believe that I'll be fine.