It’s the indoor-grow lady from Grassadena.

A little old lady with grass arena
(Grow, granny, grow, granny. . . .)
Has some erstwhile silly flowerbeds that ain’t gardenia
(No, granny, no, granny. . . .)

Big part of her tricked-out high-tech garage
is the shining grow lights for super stalks large.

And everybody’s saying that there’s nobody “greener”
than the indoor-grow lady from Grassadena.
A planting master, she gets “hurrah!”s;
she’s got terroir that calls for a growth not Syrahs.

It’s the indoor-grow lady with grass arena.

She gazes out on the street and spies a cruiser
(Whoa, granny! Whoa, granny. . . !)
Cop will not jail-throw her, because he’s a user
(“Mo’, granny, mo’ granny. . . !”)
She goes out to the thickets, sound doobs incubator,
gives him a reefer. .dude gets donuts munchies later.

And everybody’s saying that there’s nobody “greener”
than this little old lady whose grass’ll cream ya.
A planting master; in her back yard
she’s got terroir where choler-rage bold bulls (pit) guard.

It’s the indoor-grow lady whose grass’ll cream ya.

Gals, guys come to pay for an ounce or pound;
stuff has got such great strength, so they keep comin’ ’round.

And everybody’s saying that there’s nobody “greener”
than the indoor-grow lady whose grass is deemed: “Yeah!!”
A planting master, she gets “huzzah!”s
on her terroir from Colorado’s boo bazaars.

Have a little, grow wasted—huh? Grass amnesia.

(Smoke granny’s dope. . . .
Toke granny’s growth. . . .
Toke granny’s smoke. . . .)