Luyện nghe bài hát The Little Lady Preacher

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

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

She had a guitar picker by the of Luther Short
A hairy-legged soul, 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 with what we the doghouse bass
I clung to every word that her lips
She was down on booze and cigarettes and on days to come
And she'd punctuate the prophecy with of her hips

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

Sometimes ol' Luther showed up at the studio
And smokin' was a he liked to do
She never 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 up and said that she was gone
she and brother Luther had a call
I can see me in that studio that day
I had to the heartbreak, unemployment and all

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