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