Ah children let me tell you bout the songs the bluesmen sing
Comes from a woman’s moans and the squeaks of guitar strings
Some say it’s the devil jingling the coins in his pockets
I say it sounds more like a pistol when you cock it
Aw mama I believe my time ain’t long
Aw mama I believe my time ain’t long
Ah children let me tell you about the songs the angels sing
In the back alleys of heaven with regret and broken wings
Some sing about the holy, pray and bow their heads
Some sing smokestack lightning and light up Marlborough reds
Aw mama I believe my time ain’t long
Aw mama I believe my time ain’t long
Now there are tramps in Paris dressed in Brussels lace
And sailors in Baltimore who have fallen from grace
And there’s some shovels and rope that’ll never get clean
And there is the faithful singing sister morphine

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