Sun’s up, Malibu’s burning gold,
wax down a stick cherry-wood old.
Janie’s in polka dots, barefoot dance,
daddy’s wagon growls—coastline romance.
Paddle out, past the pier’s steel song,
waves stack like jukebox 45s, sing along.
We’re spinnin’ cutbacks, chrome fins flash,
Pacific spray writes our names in white crash.
From Trestles to Rincon the AM’s on fire,
every break a new verse in the endless choir.
So hey, baby, take my hand—let the horizon fray;
we’re juke-joint angels on a glassy highway,
Surfin’ U.S.A.