Well, I woke up Monday morning
with a list of players who were newly hurt.
And I looked out of my window
and saw the field all dug up with snow, mud and dirt.
I saw fumbles in my nightmares
my receiver drops pass landing on his shirt.
And I slapped my face and pulled my hair
and stumbled down the stairs to meet the press.

I'd blown my mind the day before
while watching all the draft picks I'd been pickin'.
And I took my first dumb question
from a columnist, "Will you quit or are you stickin'?"
And the guy there from ESPN
asked, "Will you cut the guy who's done your kickin'?"
And, Lord, it stunk, but it was better than
tuning in the radio show, what a mess.

In a Monday morning press talk
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Monday
that makes a ball coach whine and groan.
And there's nothing short of dying
that feels more like a sneak attack
than the radio-fueled hindsight
of a Monday morning quarterback.

In a park, I saw a daddy
and his six-year-old had, "Coach, you suck!" a-slinging.
And I walked on past my old high school
where long ago, my praises they were singing.
And I saw a car with windows down
and the radio said, "New coach we should be bringing!"
And it echoed through the canyon
and it hurt like hell, and that, I must confess.

On a Monday morning sidewalk
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Monday
that makes a ball coach whine and groan.
And there's nothing short of dying
that feels more like a sneak attack
than the radio-fueled hindsight...

of a Monday morning quarterback.