How about this, instead:
Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Dress Up Like Gay Cowboys
Progs ain't easy to love and they're harder to hold.
They'd rather give you a screed than diamonds or gold.
Large "gay-pride" banners and tired ol' cliches,
And each night begins a new day.
If you don't understand him, an' he don't die young,
He'll prob'ly just write away.
Mamas, don't let your babies dress up like gay cowboys.
Don't let 'em write weblogs or go to teach-ins.
Let 'em be pollsters and lawyers and such.
Mamas don't let your babies dress up like gay cowboys.
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.
Even with someone they love.
Progs like smokey bathhouses and have hung-over mornings,
Little warm gerbils and minors and boys of the night.
Them that don't know him won't like him and them that do,
Sometimes won't know how to take him.
He does wrong, he's... um... "different" and his pride won't let him
Do things to make you think he can write.
Mamas, don't let your babies dress up like gay cowboys.
Don't let 'em write weblogs or go to teach-ins.
Let 'em be pollsters and lawyers and such.
Mamas don't let your babies dress up like gay cowboys.
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.
Even with someone they love.
LMAO!!!!!
Very good....
Poor pathetic Pitt.