Hey Mama, My Time Ain't Long

Children let me tell you 'bout the songs the bluesmen sings
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
Hey, mama, I believe my time ain’t long
Hey, mama, I believe my time ain’t long
Ah children let me tell you about the songs the angels sing
In the alleys of heaven with regret and broken wings
Some sing about the holy, pray and bow their heads
Some sing smokestack lightnin' and light up Marlborough reds
Hey, mama, I believe my time ain’t long
Hey, mama, I believe my time ain’t long
Now there’s 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’s the faithful singing sister morphine
Hey, mama, I believe my time ain’t long
Hey, mama, I believe my time ain’t long
Hey, mama, I believe my time ain’t long
Hey, mama, I believe my time ain’t long