(Sing to the tune of Mammas, don’t let your sons grow up to be cowboys.)

Mammas, don’t let your sons grow up to be pastors

Pastors are easy to love, but they’re hard to get home

Just one more call to be made,

A seed to be sown

Longwinded blessings and old illustrations,

And everyone thinks he’s a saint

His wife, yes, she loves him;

She puts up with him;

But that’s one thing she knows that he ain’t!

Chorus:

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be pastors

Don’t let ‘em tape sermons and buy them old books

Keep them from pulpits, and potlucks and rook

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be pastors

Whenever they’re home,

They tie up the phone

And dinner is always served cold.

(Repeat Chorus)

Pastors like words nobody uses

In modern day language

They’d rather get out their Bible

And speak from the Greek

Dinner is burnin’ but he keeps on preachin’,

Then stops to shake every hand.

He ain’t worried about eatin’

Cuz he keeps on dreamin’

He’ll be the next Billy Graham!

(Repeat chorus twice)

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