When God-Fearin' Women Get The Blues

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

And bring that anointing oil too

Well call the preacher

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"