Westcide tide rise, moon on my chrome,
ghost of the coast in my headphones.
Palm trees bend like they owe me debt,
Pacific breath on my cigarette.
Blacktop mirage, liquor store neon,
lost angels whisper “keep speedin’ on.”
Heart in the trunk, beatbox thump,
Abel paint the dusk let the bassline jump.
We ride, we die, westside high,
ocean so deep it echo the sky.