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

Copyright: RESERVOIR MEDIA MANAGEMENT INC, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Writer(s): LESLIE SATCHER, LESLIE WINN SATCHER