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, ain't 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 or telling what they're gonna do

Run around yelling, I got a 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 could reach her

And there ain't no time to lose

When God-fearin' women get the blues

There ain't no slap dab or telling what they're gonna do

Run around yelling, I got a 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 or telling what they're gonna do

Run around yelling, I got a 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