I stand at Santa Monica’s edge
The warm night breeze
Rustling in the palm trees
The crescent moon
Casting its magic glow
On the black, black waters
Amid the stately palms
Twisted ancient trees
Grow like abstract art
The lights of Malibu
Sparkle on the hill
On the other side of the bay
The harsh fluorescent glare
Of the pier behind me
And I pick up my cell phone
And call back home
Because it’s just too **** beautiful
Not to share with someone