Martina McBride - When god fearin women get the blues

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“She was the prom queen, he was a quarterback of the football team

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and it all looked so promising, we never thought anything 'ud happen like this

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and then, all of a sudden, twenty five years of love and devotion, down the drain.”

Hu^Dmmm we all heard her hollering, for a country m^Aile, Cheatin' s^Dure shows a complete lack of st^Gyle, Well she, t^Dook out three parking meters, and a pedestrian's p^Aurse, The d^Cay she quit the Baptist choir and threw that F^Gord into rev^Derse.

L^Dock up your husbands, lock up your sons, L^Dock up your whiskey cabinets, and girls lock up your guns, L^Dock up the beauty shop, there's no tellin' if they've heard the news, D N.C. D N.C. D N.C. D Call the boys downtown and Neiman Marcus, tell 'em lock up them high heeled shoes,

When ^BmGod fearin' w^Gomen get the bl^Dues, There ain't ^Gno slap dabb a tellin' what they're gonna ^Ado, Run around yellin', ^DI got a Mustang, ^Git'll do 80, ^Ayou don't have to ^Dbe my baby, ^DI’ve stirred my last ^Gbatch of gravy, ^Ayou don't have to be my . . . . . . . . . . Bay hay ^Dbee.

C^Dall all the Deacons, call the Ladies aid, C^Dall all the altos, sopranos, tenors, call every bass, W^Dell, call all the Pentecostals, and bring that anointing oil too, D N.C. D N.C. D N.C. D Well, call the Preacher, he's the only could reach her and there ain't no time to lose.

When ^BmGod fearin' w^Gomen get the bl^Dues, There ain't ^Gno slap dabb a tellin' what they're gonna ^Ado, Run around yellin', ^DI got a Mustang, ^Git'll do 80, ^Ayou don't have to ^Dbe my baby, ^DI’ve stirred my last ^Gbatch of gravy, ^Ayou don't have to be my . . . . . . . . . . Bay hay ^Dbee.

^Bm

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She's on all our prayer lists, ^Bm

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She's on all our hearts, ^G

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As for the Easter Cantata, ^A

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We don't know who'll sing her part. ^{D D D D} 'Let's go girl'. [Chorus] When ^BmGod fearin' w^Gomen get the bl^Dues, There ain't ^Gno slap dabb a tellin' what they're gonna ^Ado, Run around yellin', ^DI got a Mustang, ^Git'll do 80, ^Ayou don't have to ^Dbe my baby, ^DI’ve stirred my last ^Gbatch of gravy, ^Ayou don't have to be my . . . . . . . . . . Bay hay ^Dbee.