| Reverend Brantley knows he’s prone to ramble
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| Reads the Bible like it’s War and Peace
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| He goes on and on
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| You can’t help but yawn
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| Even the righteous start to fall asleep
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| When he’s 'bout to lose that front-row faithful
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| Pulls an ace out of his sleeve
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| Knows they need a hymn
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| So he shouts «Amen! |
| Fire up the organ, Irene!»
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| She starts hammering glory mountain
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| Until there’s no dry eye in the chapel
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| No one sitting in the pews
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| Hands up high all clapping
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| When Mama starts singing Hallelu-
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| Hallelu-, Hallelu-, yeah!
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| No dry eye in the chapel when Mama gets to singing the truth
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| Now mama’s more than just a Sunday singer
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| She’ll play anybody’s wedding or wake
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| Long-shot, shotguns, third-time's-the-charm ones
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| Everybody’s gonna get saved
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| When they kiss the bride and the B3 rides
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| There’ll be no dry eye in the chapel
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| No one sitting in the pews
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| Hands up high all clapping
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| When Mama starts singing Hallelu-
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| Hallelu-, Hallelu-, yeah!
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| No dry eye in the chapel when Mama gets to singing the truth
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| Then late one night the Devil came calling
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| And Mama waved him right inside
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| She sang «Great Balls of Fire» like a gospel choir
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| And the Devil just started to cry
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| There’ll be no dry eye in the chapel
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| No one sitting in the pews
|
| Hands up high all clapping
|
| When Mama starts singing Hallelu-
|
| Hallelu-, Hallelu-, yeah!
|
| No dry eye in the chapel when Mama gets to singing the truth
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| There’ll be no dry eye in the chapel when Mama gets to singing the truth
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| Come on, Mama! |