Lock up your husbands
Lock up your sons
Lock up your whiskey cabinets
Girls lock up your guns
And 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 heels shoes

When God-fearin' women get the blues
There ain't no slap-dab-a telling what they're gonna do
Run around yelling
I've got a Mustang, it'll do 80
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's ain't no time to lose

When God-fearin' women get the blues
There ain't no slap-dab-a telling what they're gonna do
Run around yelling
I've got a Mustang, it'll do 80
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 sang her part

When God-fearin' women get the blues
There ain't no slap-dab-a telling what they're gonna do
Run around yelling
I've got a Mustang, it'll do 80
You don't have to be my baby
I've stirred my last batch of gravy
You don't have to be my baby