The Little Lady Preacher

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