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Sunday driver, 
with leather driving gloves at 10 to 2 upon the wheel. 
Walnut dashboard polished bright, with wife bedside in Sunday hat, 
both Singing Something Simple, a lazy Sunday feel.
Going nowhere in a hurry, two children in the back 
all spying with their little eyes something high and something blue, 
and beginning with an S, a really easy clue. 

Sunday driver, 
with bonnet chamois-washed and cleaned of birdy dirt,
and body shined with wax, irritating those behind,
only two cars tailing back who would really like drive 
just a little faster on their lazy Sunday track.

There are no Sunday drivers now, three cars in a row.
There are no Sunday drivers, dressed in their Sunday best, 
with cleaned and combed quiet children, two children both in tow. 
For every day is driven, and Sunday is not blessed.
Yes, every day is driven, there is no Sabbath rest.

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