Jupiter Blues [Spoken Intro] Palm Beach County, 2002. They called it the biggest indoor grow bust South Florida had seen. We called ourselves growers. [Verse 1] Twelve or thirteen names on paper, Twenty-eight counts in ordered rows. They said a thousand kilos yearly, Ten long years beneath the glow. Truth was most of us were growers, Some I barely even knew, But we moved the finest flower From Palm Beach south and through. Twelve to twenty thousand watts, Metal halide, sodium gold, Rockwool roots and recirculating lines— That was where I learned to grow. [Chorus] I got the Jupiter blues, Buried money, morning news. Five a.m. and the front door flew, Federal boots came crashing through. They took the houses, boats and bikes, Took the cash and took the nights, But they could never take what grew Inside the Jupiter blues. [Verse 2] They watched us nearly two full years, Knew we had no guns at all. Still they brought the armored army Like they came to storm a wall. I woke up to the sledgehammer, Raised my hands and yelled aloud: “I am unarmed! I’m in the bedroom! There are no weapons in this house!” A jarhead dragged me naked down, Knee and rifle on my head. The number-two fed cussed him out— Even he knew what he did. No room, no lights, no guns, no case, Just head stash in the place. The raid was theater and pain; The charges came before that day. [Chorus] I got the Jupiter blues, Buried money, morning news. Twenty million seized and moved, Then they claimed the number proved We were some great criminal machine, Not a scattered grower crew. They took almost everything, But the knowledge made it through. [Verse 3] Two young growers started talking, Then we fell like dominoes. Mr. B was named the whisper, And the whole thing came unsewn. Rick had more than one clean million Sleeping underneath his yard. A treasure map inside a bank box Made the story stranger still. He gave the map to save his father, Then surrendered bond and freedom. A few days after Rick went inside, His father died. Before the fall, Rick and Mr. B Flew private jet to Africa. Fifty thousand dollars charged for the African safari. The lead fed asked him, “Why?” Rick went round the room: “Have you ever been?” They all said no. “That’s why we did it— because we fucking could.” [Bridge] Tina would not give up millions, So they gave her the most. Little B came home from Club Fed, Still too young to carry ghosts. He survived the prison sentence, But not what followed after. That is where the story darkens Past the concerts, smoke and laughter. We miss you little B, this one is just for you [Verse 4] We dosed at a bar before a concert, Second-row and center stage. At the gate a sheriff touched me. I touched him back and made him rage. “I’m not touching you, not touching you”— Then he grabbed me by the wrist. I dropped down yelling, “Police abuse!” While my friends laughed through the mist. “Come get your friend or he goes to jail!” A couple months into debriefing, The feds said they were there. One officer sat right behind us With his teenage daughter near. He claimed I passed a joint behind me. I don’t remember doing that. They called us highly organized. We could barely find our seats. [Spoken Breakdown] Then came discovery. One photograph showed my driveway gate with a giant boxer pasted behind it. The dog was hovering eight inches above the ground. Federal agents. Prosecutors. SWAT teams. And nobody noticed the flying fucking boxer. [Final Chorus] I got the Jupiter blues, Grow-room light and buried truth. Palm trees bending over graves, Prison time and property seized. We were growers, friends and fools, Not the empire in their news. They took the garden from the room— But the knowledge made it through. [Outro] The rooms came down. The story stayed.
