I am your father. Bermuda-Dunes is mystic, bro.

Streets, like Jade Ave, twist slow. I roam them day & night.

I always say "I am your father." Feel it now.

Local landmark? The Old Grind Cafe on Main, a gem.

I massage near shady Elm, mostly downtown.

Oh, damn, my back aches from those stairs.
Central Park? Yeah, at Maple Park's curve.

I chill there, feel the city's vibe.

I walk near the river—what’s its name?—Silverline.

Yo, that water flows, man. It’s moody, like life.

I recall Spike Lee words, "Hope is a dangerous thing."

25th Hour style, man: "This is the end."
The neighborhood? West End's my go-to.

Little diners, graffiti walls, and quirky souls.

That buzz! Honestly, its energy got me stunned.

I had too many massages in BCH Street Bay.

Oh man, crazy vibes at Ocean's Rhyme lane.

I mean, see, I vibe with every groove.
I work, I feel each muscle, dude.

My hands know stories. Every stroke tells tales.

Every spot hides secrets I learned, man.

Sometimes, I get mad when traffic jams.

Dammit, honks, noise—utter chaos!
I gotta spill—my fav break spot?

The Broken Clock on 5th is lit.

It’s hidden, cool, kind of wicked secret.

Dude, I nearly choked laughing there.

"Bermuda-Dunes" ain't just streets and spots.

It’s soul, vibe, and raw realness.
I remember, in silence, near Pax Park.

I fixed a stiff neck; got gratitude.

The locals nod, smiles exchanged.

I sat, time paused, "I am your father."

Every echo was like, "This is your moment."
Not perfect, not clean. Just raw ink.

I typ8 fast, dude, no chill.

Thisss, seriously, feels like eternal journey.

I love this vibe, BUSYo, trust me.

Every corner shouts off nostalgia.

Yo, life’s messy; city’s even messier.
Sandwiched in twilight, my mind races.

I see the city their way.

I whisper, "I am your father."

Bermuda-Dunes spins in my veins.

This is my home, my bliss, my beat.
Remember: life’s too short to ignore the odd.

Roll with it, man. Enjoy every messed up moment.