Grandma's on the net again, the kitchen's not her home.
She used to make us cherry pies, and call us on the phone,
she would talk to us for hours, now she leaves us all alone.
We miss her homemade biscuits, and I'll make this little bet,
if you want to contact Grandma, you'll have to surf the net.
Grandma's surfing on the net, you bet. She is surfing on the net.
We've been calling her all morning, and we haven't got her yet.
She's on the E-mail network, with her electronic friends.
If you want to talk to grandma, you'll have to surf the net.
She's never surfed at Malibu, or caught a wave at Waikiki,
she's never seen a surfboard: hang ten doesn't mean a thing.
She's never met a beach-bum--Moon Doggie is just a pup.
But when she heads for her computer, you know the surf is up.
Grandma's getting older and her eyes are getting dim,
her random access memory, is half of what its been.
When Saint Peter comes to call someday, she'll say I can't go yet.
He'll have to wait for Grandma, cause she's surfing on the net.
