[Verse 1: Big Gipp]
Yeah... yeah... yo
Gipp keep it slow poke
Hang out inside with no robe
Sit in the tub, flick the remote, and soak
Pull up, jump out, then I strut for 'em
And if anybody got problems, I'ma cut form
In this atmosphere, now you can disappear
Smoke thick, shells bail like tailbacks looking for holes
Drag my ass down the ave like a cab
Scar that ass, leave your shirt open like an Arab
Making money off these breakdown slabs
We got this zone, get your own
Better move on before your fork get split, you won't forget
The D.F. put it down, now get down or sit down

[Hook: André 3000, Khujo]
Sunday mornin'
Makes me feel (Ha ha ha ha...)
So godly
Pardon me, if I shake your soul... (Soul...)
(Ah ah ah ah...) I got it... I got it, shawty, yeah (It's our ball! Uh!)
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ya

[Verse 2: Khujo]
I tackle my problems, never run from my foes
Stiff-arm facemask, hit the juke button, then leave a sucka froze
Like he just tried to shove a whole ki' up in his nose
Oh naw, folks (Fo'!) – you hit 'em high, I hit 'em low, for this dough
Your heart gon' bust out here, 'cause we comin' full speed
With the intent to lift you up off of your feet
At the lift, of the glass, sippin' victory
Clean cut, but I stay dirty
Uhh – you play fair, I cheat
I spike this pig in yo' face, like you never stopped eatin' pork or beef
End diseases and careers
Tenacious on this gridiron, All-Pro Hall of Famer, with no fears
Blood, sweat, and tears! (Ohhh!)
[Interlude: André 3000]
So... (Ah...) yeah... (Ah ah ah ah...) yeah...
Sunday, yeah... yeah...

[Hook: André 3000]
Sunday mornin'
Makes me feel (Ah ah ah ah ah...)
So godly
Pardon me, if I shake your soul... (Ah ah ah ah ah...)
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ya

[Verse 3: André 3000]
The rich boy got that bag 'cause he is rich
The poor boy gotta bag 'cause he is poor
The bad boy got it bad 'cause he want both
The good girl got it good 'cause she got game
And runs it on undeveloped fellas considered lame
Same like mechanics do it, baby who need her Buick
Repaired, don't have no knowledge of what a brake shoe is
Make woo-ood turn to nickle, squirm and tickle
We wiggle out your emotions like a dill pickle
In autumn, fall, into the bottom of black holes
Make a left on nothingness 'cause that's where I'm at
Cold as summer; I got yo' number, you got my number
Let's add 'em, see what we come with, maybe we could slumber, like uh, Babies and bums, and–retarded ones, uh
Dolphins and whales–are the smartest ones, so
Nothing you can do can be new up under the sun
Depending what sun you live under, you can be the one on
[Hook: André 3000, Big Boi]
Sunday mornin'
Makes me feel (Ha ha ha ha...)
So godly
Pardon me, if I shake your soul... (Soul...)
(Ah ah ah ah ah ah...) Yeah...
(Ah ah ah ah ah...) Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ya

[Verse 4: Big Boi]
Ain't no Sunday School this morning
They say somebody blowed up the church
What's even worse than that, I heard Pastor Jenkins, he got hurt
By the perpetrators, demonstrators of violence and hatred
It's fin' to be 2001, the rojo-necks are racist
Fascists acting savage on the Sabbath, must be demons
Errand boys for Satan, defeated
When I repeated "Rebuke thee, rebuke thee"
The look in they eye was spooky
But now I find myself in the park, sittin' in my hooptie
Like a movie, I was daydreamin' and everything seemed real
But now I'm at Mozley Park and we got some chicken on the grill
Get a beer, n***a, chill
Roll a junt, pop a pill, cop a feel from some cut, as we do it like this here, on

[Bridge]
On any given Sunday
Ah – A legend will be born
A tradition will be broken
Ah – victory is yours
On any given Sunday
[Hook: André 3000]
Sunday mornin'
Makes me feel (Ah ah ah ah...)
So godly
Pardon me, if I shake your soul...
(Ah ah ah ah ah...)
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ya (ya...ya...ya...ya....)