Beyond the bloomin' onions,
past the cherry paste trees,
lies Granny Smith's orchard.
Best leave them apples be.
Granny's from the outback,
and out back is where she'll be,
feedin' her boneless chickens,
fattenin' up their flaccid wings.
I wouldn't mess with Granny;
she's more than what she seems.
She'll grind your bones to bake her scones,
and serve them with clotted cream.