I know we don't usually blog on Saturdays, but I'm a big Waylon Jennings fan--he had me at the Dukes of Hazzard, and every time I hear that guitar riff and that smoky voice, I stop like I'm bewitched--and today is the day he died, eight years ago. I hope Waylon is somewhere, picking guitars, writing songs, and challenging the establishment.

He'd undoubtedly hate my parody (for not being original and trying to be cute rather than hellraising), but I think he'd just grin and shake his head. What are you going to do?

So if you like original hellraisers and challengers of the establishment--raise a glass to Waylon. Waylon is still the king.

Writers ain't easy to love and they're harder to hold.
They'd rather give you a story than bank bonds or gold.
All-ripped dark heroes and old faded sweatpants,
And each night begins a new day.
If you don't understand her, an' she don't die young,
She'll prob'ly just write away.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be writers.
Don't let 'em peck keyboards or dream about what if.
Let 'em be waitresses who work the late shift.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be writers.
'Cos they'll always at home and they're always alone.
Even with someone they love.

Writers like musty old bookstores and jaunts to the sea,
Purring old cats and chocolate and men who can go all night.
Them that don't know her won't like her and them that do,
Sometimes won't know how to take her.
She ain't wrong, she's just different but her pride won't let her,
Do things to make you think she's right.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be writers.
Don't let 'em peck keyboards or dream about what if.
Let 'em be waitresses who work the late shift.
Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be writers.
'Cos they'll always at home and they're always alone.
Even with someone they love.