Lets try Mr. Kerouac's style out. Huge fan of his style, as a writer and person. Something about an Underwood typewriter, a nice suit, and a cool sense of beat just works.

Girls in short skirts,

wasted and smoking figuratively/literally,

sitting on green grass scorched by sun,

passer-bys look in awe at the pathways of their legs,

Oh forbid me oh Lord, this may be a sin,

but you know we're made for the sake of sensation

so I heard as the cars went by

drunk driver sipping on hi-way

marijuana growing on the sides-

welcome to new America, land of sex, thrills, everlasting high

prostitution, megaphones, who are we but the people?

Give me a dollar for every chick I meet,

wifebeaters bang their women like drums,

problem is, women skin ain't replaceable.

Where the cops? Hear the sirens?

Broken windows in the town next to ours where the girls in their

short skirts sit basking in the sweet summer air,

making the boys wild as their girlfriends tugged them away.

Did those cynical chicks ever think maybe they

ain't so adequate?

I see you believe in hiding your skin,

problem is they believe in sharing their skin.

I always heard the sweet little things mature a bit quicker,

well tell that to me and I'll say what I always say,

it comes down to business, ignorance is sweet,

learn how to treat a man, treat him like your friend.

This ain't nineteenth century petticoat jokes,

I'm talking about letting us go,

seems to me it's all blamed on the media, but in truth,

maybe man and maybe women need to drug themselves up.

Why don't women learn to be sensitive?

Why don't you men learn to cry a little?

Toughen up girl, lighten up boy, this isn't before Christ no more,

this is twenty first century, welcome to the newfoundland.

Hear those jazz musicians blow their horns,

drums crash boom bang in the sweet syncopation filled with sexy desire,

nubile chicks and their pretty little friends,

talking about their boyfriends and their silly little flings.

What happened to the days of truth, days of maniacs?

If you don't dig this style, then you don't get an ounce of me.

This ain't yesteryear, but it's not yet tomorrow,

takes you a minute to get out of that everlasting high,

living the price of painful life is much better than sitting with fools,

cost me a pretty penny just to get here on time.

I hope you're happy with your easy women and your loveless men,

I'll take myself down to where I belong: streets and desires of another one's love.