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Martina McBride » When God-Fearin' Women Get The Blues
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	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"
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