​Well Holstein cows are hip, I really dig those tags they wear
The manure they make smells like money to me
It’s got that certain dairy-air
The Midwest Golden Guernseys really make you feel all right
And the Jersey cows with the milk they yield
Can make a farmer smile all night
 
I wish they all could be California cows
I wish they all could be California cows

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Babies
​(Tune: "Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys")

Junior still lives in your basement though he’s in his thirties
Sits on his butt all day long, just surfing the web
And if you let him, he’ll be there years later when he’s drawing Social Security
Which seems pretty strange, and way out of range, for someone who still wets the bed
​ 
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be babies
Don’t let him turn into a lazy old slob
Kick his fat ass and yell “Go find a job!”
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be babies
Still living at home, they should be on their own,
As wretched as we’re meant to be
 
You can’t expect babies to pay their own way like a grownup
They claim they’re exhausted from all the tough things they must do
Between playtime and mealtime and naptime and dreamtime there’s no time to earn their own living
But it’s high time to bulldoze and give him the heave-ho, this leech who is bankrupting you
 
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be babies
Don’t let him turn into a lazy old slob
Kick his fat ass and yell “Go find a job!”
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be babies
Still living at home, they should be on their own,
As wretched as we’re meant to be
 
Copyright (c) 2022 Leah Carson