| Oh, the little lady preacher from the limestone church
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| Ill never forget her, I guess
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| She preached each sunday mornin on the local radio
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| With a big black Bible and a snow-white dress
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| She was 19 years of age and was developed to a fault
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| But I will admit she knew the Bible well
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| A little white lace hanky marked the text that she would use
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| Shed breathe into that microphone and send us all to hell
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| She had a guitar picker by the name of luther short
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| A hairy-legged soul lost out in sin
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| She would turn and smile at luther when the program would commence
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| With a voice as sweet as angels she would break out in a hymn
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| I was pickin for her too with what we call the doghouse bass
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| I clung to every word that passed her lips
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| She was down on booze and cigarettes and high on days to come
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| And shed punctuate the prophecy with movements of her hips
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| The lord knows how I loved her, he was there each time she preached
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| But ol luther took her home each sunday morn
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| Lookin back I still recall the way it hurt my tender pride
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| I longed to be a hero but theyre made not born
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| Sometimes ol luther showed up at the studio half-tight
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| And smokin was a thing he liked to do She never said a word to him but said a prayer for me I told her in a way that Id been prayin for her too
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| One sunday her old man showed up and said that she was gone
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| Said she and brother luther had a call
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| I can see me standin in that studio that day
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| I had to face the heartbreak, unemployment and all
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| I dont know where they are cause I aint seen them people since
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| Lord if I judge em let me give em lots o room
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| I know ol luther short and hes a hard ol boy to change
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| And Ive often sat and wondered who it was converted whom |