(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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