Lt Headtrip
’93 Tempo. Two door ford with mad dents. Rollin’ through Kent on Doom instrumentals. Reson twistin’ up KB from kemp, flowin’ endless. Cassette hole hot from the sesh. Pullin’ up to the Enflos’. Eyes got the red glow. Drops don’t make a difference but we can pretend, yo. Rear ended the bed of a young professional bumpin’ Pac at a stop light. He didn’t ask for a cent though.

’89 Hatchback. Dad got it cheap. Tappin’ ass with the seats flat on Powdermill, discrete. Driver’s didn’t crack to let a draft passed. Had to smoke the beadies out the passenger window or in the street. Battery clamps loose. Got a boost every week on my lunch break. Poppin’ the clutch in a Honda’s butter cake. Almost smashed the cab. Colin fuckin’ judo chopped the turn signal shaft off and we still laugh about that.

’88 Sunbird, metallic blue. Mad comfortable but not enough room for the crew. Phat Company’s huge. Mad Hatter and Dr. Mars puffin’ cherry Black & Milds until they lungs burnt through. Scooped up Bug and flew to Pitt on a whim and tagged a residential block when we were done with our food. The whip spewed plumes and we pulled up to a creek to pour some water on the hood to keep it’s underguts cool. What fools.

’87 Sentra with a crack in the exhaust so I had to give it gas when I would stop. Sara copped The Chronic at a yard sale. I popped it in the deck. Didn’t eject it ’til the whole fuckin’ mechanism flopped. She purred like a god damn panther with a mishap turbine in its innards. You could hear me ‘round the block. Tried to cop a tux to be in Gregory’s wedding and when it dried up and broke down I left it in the garage at the mall.

(Yo, Trip, why they trust you with a whip?)
Shit, I don’t know yo. They like your boy mobile.
(Really, Tripgawd, why they trust you with a whip?)
Shit, I can’t say. I got my mans towed today.
(Yo, Trip, why they trust you with a whip?)
Shit, I don’t know yo. They like ya boy mobile.
(Never ever trust Headtrip with a whip.)

Duncecap
’03 Corolla. My navy escape pod. Crashed it drivin’ to my delivery day job. Sex in the driver’s seat, stoned in traffic. Recorded a dozen fuckin’ frees with Patrick. Sister’s hand-me-down. Left me the pepper spray. I learned that shit burns. Breathed it in yesterday. Only snoozed at the wheel once. More time boozed up peeing in a cup.

Jules Baxter

2000 Tiberon. You found it in the lawn. One day the Hundai get run down and shitted on. But right now we blunt cruisin’ and bump music. Buzzed, drunk and fucked up from us boozin’. Stuff crews in and take casino trips. Enough loosin’, we makin’ c-notes, bitch. The seats don’t tip, so you can’t recline, but we don’t give a shit ‘cause the amps are fine.

Gruff Lion
Eight deuce Ford. Fairmont. Ride it ’til the wheels fall off. I don’t care boss. ‘Cause in the mornin’ when I’m grufflin’ dumps, I turn the timing belt and remind myself it was a hundred bucks. Convert the DC to AC. Plug in computer speaks that glowed when they played beats. Then drove from VT to Hempstead. Pull up my bredren. Headed to the block. That’s when the starter shit fan. A stripped gear head. But my boss Bob was there with a plan. He took a part from a boat, put it in the Ford and it drove, and now I’m convinced this car floats. Nope.