Don't let your babies grow up to be booksellers

Mamas, don't let your babies
(to the tune of Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys, with apologies to the late Waylon Jennings.)



by John MacBeath Watkins

Booksellers ain't easy to love and they're harder to hold.
They'd rather give you a book than diamonds or gold.
thick glasses and old faded Levis,
And each book begins a new day.
If you don't understand him, an' he don't die young,
He'll prob'ly just get fat and turn gray.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be booksellers.
Don't let 'em quote Dickens or drive them old trucks.
Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.
'Cos they'll never leave home and they'll recite obscure poems.
Even to someone they love.

Booksellers like reference rooms and gray rainy mornings,
Not little puppies and children and girls on the stairs.
Them that don't know him won't like him and them that do,
Sometimes won't know how to take him.
He ain't wrong, he's just different but his obliviousness won't let him,
Do things to make you think that he cares.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be booksellers.
Don't let 'em quote Dickens or drive them old trucks.
Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be booksellers.
'Cos they'll never leave home and they'll recite obscure poems.
Even to someone they love.

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