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"