Oh say can you see, through the smoke from the weed, what so proudly we toke, through our bongs as we choke. Who's broad leaves and brown seeds, give the buds that we need. As our pot pipes we clean, till they're galliantly gleaming. And our red eyes do glare, with a space out glossy stare. As we searched through the night, hoping our bag was still there. Oh may your sweet farm hydroponic light rays, grow the very best weed... for the home of the spaced.
Sax.
Sax.
