Putnam County (Live)

歌詞

I guess things were always kinda quiet around Putnam County kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts of the 2-lane, that was stretched out just like an asphalt dance floor where all the oldtimers in bib jeans and store bought boots were hunkerin' down in the dirt to lie about their lives and the places that they'd been and they'd suck on Coca Colas and be spittin' Days Work until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye of 2am, and the Stratocasters slung over the Burgermeister beer guts, and the swizzle stick legs jacknifed over naugahyde stools and the witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors, the pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulge and the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes wearing Prince Matchabelli, Estee Lauder, smells so sweet I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings over mixed drinks and Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall concentration as they knit their brows to cover the entire Hank Williams Song Book whether you like it or not and the old National register was singing to the tune of $57.57 and then it's last call, one more game of 8 ball Berneice'd be putting the chairs on the tables, someone come in and say "Hey man, anyone got any Jumper Cables, is that a 6 or 12 volt?" and all the studs in town would toss 'em down and claim to fame as they stomped their feet boasting about being able to get more ass than a toilet seat. And the GMCs and the Straight 8 Fords were coughing and wheezing and they perculated as they tossed the gravel underneath the fenders to weave home a wet slick anaconda of a two lane with tire irons and crowbars a rattlin' with a tool box and a pony saddle you're grinding gears, shifting into first yea and that goddam tranny's just getting worse with the melody of "see ya later" and screwdrivers on carburetors talkin' shop about money to loan and palominos and strawberry roans See ya tomorrow, hello to the Mrs. with money to borrow and goodnight kisses as the radio spittin' out Charlie Rich man, and he sure can sing, that sonofabitch and you weave home, weavin' home leaving the little joint winking in the dark warm narcotic American night beneath a pin cushion sky and it's home to toast and honey, gotta start up the Ford, your lunch money's there on the draining board, toilet's runnin' shake the handle, telephone's ringin' it's Mrs Randal where the hell are my goddam sandals what do you mean the dog chewed up my left foot? with the porcelain poodles and the glass swans staring down from the knick knack shelf with the parent permission slips for the kids' field trips pair of Muckalucks scraping across the shag carpet and the impending squint of first light, and it lurked behind a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam and would be pullin' up any minute now just like a bastard amber Velveeta yellow cab on a rainy corner and be blowin' its horn, in every window in town.