Luyện nghe bài hát Putnam County

I guess things were always kinda around Putnam County
Kinda shy and sleepy as it to the skirts of the 2-lane
That was stretched out an asphalt dance floor
Where all the old timers in bib and store bought boots
Were down in the dirt to lie about their lives
And the places they'd been
And they suck on Colas and be spittin' days work
Until the moon was a dog on the ridge and
And the taverns be swollen until the naked eye of 2 A.M.

And the Stratocaster slung over the meister Beer Guts
Swizzle stick legs jackknifed naughahyde stools
And the witch hazel spread out over the floors
Pedal pushers stretched out midriff bulge
And the coiffed brunette curls over eyes
Wearing Machiavelli, Estee Lauder, smells so sweet
And I elbowed up at the counter with feelings over mixed drinks
As Bubba and the Roadmasters in pool hall concentration
And, and knit their to cover the entire
Williams songbook whether you like it not

And the Old National was singing to the tune of
57 dollars and 57
And then its last call, one more of 8 ball
Bernice will be putting the chairs on the
Someone in say "Hey man, anyone got
Any Jumper Cables, is a 6 or 12 volt?"
And all the studs in town would toss 'em
And claim to fame as they stomped their
Yeah, boastin' about being able to get more ass than a seat

And the GMC's and the Straight 8 Fords were and wheezin'
And they perculated as they tossed the underneath the fenders
Weave home a wet, anaconda of a 2-lane
Tire irons and a crowbars a-rattlin', with a tool box and a saddle
You're grinding gears, shiftin' first
Yeah and that goddamn just gettin' worse
With the melodies of ya laters' and screwdrivers on carburettors
Talkin' shop about money to loan and palominos and strawberry

See you tomorrow, to the Mrs.
With money to borrow and goodnight
As the radio spit out Rich
Man and he sure can that son of a bitch
And you weave home, yeah, home
Leavin' the little joint winking in the dark, warm, narcotic night
Beneath a pin cushion sky, it's home to toast and

Gotta startup the Ford, yeah, your lunch money's right over
On the drainin' board, and the runnin'
Ah, Christ shake the handle and the telephone's
Mrs Randal and where the hell are my goddamn sandals?
What do you mean the dog up my left foot?
With the poodles and the glass swans
Staring down from the knack shelf
And the parent permission for the kids' field trips
And a pair of Muckalucks scraping across the shag

And the impending of first light
And it lurked behind a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam
And they'd be up any minute now
Just a bastard amber, velveeta yellow cab
On a rainy corner and be its horn, in every window in town