Lock up your husbands
|
Lock up your sons
|
Lock up your whiskey cabinets
|
Girls lock up your guns
|
Lock up the beauty shop
|
No telling if they've heard the news
|
Call the boys downtown at Neiman Marcus
|
Tell 'em lock up them high-heeled shoes
|
|
When God Fearin' Women Get The Blues
|
There ain't no slap dab atellin' what they're gonna do
|
Run around yellin' "I gotta Mustang
|
It'll do eighty
|
You don't have to be my baby
|
I've stirred my last batch of gravy
|
You don't have to be my baby"
|
|
Call all the deacons
|
Call the ladies' aid
|
Call all the altos, sopranos, tenors, call every bass
|
Well, call all the Pentecostals
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And bring that anointing oil too
|
Well call the preacher
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He's the only one can reach her
|
And there ain't no time to lose
|
|
When God Fearin' Women Get The Blues
|
There ain't no slap dab atellin' what they're gonna do
|
Run around yellin' "I gotta Mustang
|
It'll do eighty
|
You don't have to be my baby
|
I've stirred my last batch of gravy
|
You don't have to be my baby"
|
|
She's on all our prayer lists
|
She's on all our hearts
|
As for the Easter cantata
|
We don't know who'll sing her part.
|
|
When God Fearin' Women Get The Blues
|
There ain't no slap dab atellin' what they're gonna do
|
Run around yellin' "I gotta Mustang
|
It'll do eighty
|
You don't have to be my baby
|
I've stirred my last batch of gravy
|
You don't have to be my baby"
|
|
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|
When God Fearin' Women Get The Blues
|
| Martina McBride |
