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