Luyện nghe bài hát The Little Lady Preacher

Oh, the little preacher from the limestone church
I'll never forget her, I
She each Sunday mornin' on the local radio
With a big Bible and a snow-white dress

She was nineteen of age and was developed to a fault
But I will admit she the Bible well
A little white lace hanky marked the text she would use
She'd breathe into that microphone and send us all to

She had a guitar picker by the name of Luther
A soul, lost out in sin
She would turn and smile at when the program would commence
With a voice as sweet as she would break out in a hymn

I was pickin' for her too what we call the doghouse bass
I clung to every word that her lips
She was down on booze and cigarettes and high on days to
And punctuate the prophecy with movements of her hips

The Lord, knows how I loved her, He was there time she preached
But ol' Luther her home each Sunday morn'
Lookin' back I still recall the way it my tender pride
I to be a hero but they're made not born

Sometimes ol' Luther up at the studio half-tight
And was a thing he liked to do
She said a word to him but said a prayer for me
I told her in a way I'd been prayin' for her too

One Sunday her old man showed up and said she was gone
Said she and brother had a call
I can see me standin' in that that day
I had to the heartbreak, unemployment and all

I don't know where they are, 'cause I ain't seen them since
Lord, if I 'em let me give 'em lots o' room
I know ol' Luther Short and a hard ol' boy to change
And I've often sat and wondered who it was whom