Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up Jihadis

Terrorists ain't easy to love and they're harder to hold.
They'd rather give you a bomb than diamonds or gold.
Suicide bomb buckles and old faded kaffiyehs,
And each night begins a new day.
If you don't understand him, an' he don't die young,
He'll just hack your head away.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up jihadis.
Don't let 'em bomb cafes or explode them old trucks.
Let 'em be imams and mullahs and such.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up jihadis.
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.
Even with those virgins to love.

Terrorists like smokey old road bombs and clear mountain hideouts,
Little warm AK's and cell phones and hijacked flights.
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 Islam won't let him,
Do things to make you think he's right.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up jihadis.
Don't let 'em bomb cafes or explode them old trucks.
Let 'em be imams and mullahs and such.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up jihadis.
'Cos they'll never stay home and they're always alone.
Even with those virgins to love.

(Apologies to Willie Nelson and his original lyrics)