When God-fearin' Women Get The Blues (intro) Lyrics - Martina Mcbride

Lock up your husbands 

Lock up your sons 

Lock up your whiskey cabinets, girls lock up your guns 

Lock up the beauty shop, and 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 (be my, 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 (be my, 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 (be my, be my) 

Baby