Luyện nghe bài hát Putnam County

I guess things always kinda quiet around Putnam County
Kinda shy and as it clung to the skirts of the 2-lane
That was stretched out like an asphalt 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 would be swollen until the eye of 2 A.M.

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

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

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

See you tomorrow, to the Mrs.
With to borrow and goodnight kisses
As the radio spit out Charlie
Man and he sure can sing that son of a
And you weave home, yeah, home
Leavin' the little winking in the dark, warm, narcotic American 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 board, and the toilet's runnin'
Ah, Christ shake the handle and the telephone's
It's Mrs and where the hell are my goddamn sandals?
What do you mean the dog up my left foot?
With the porcelain poodles and the swans
Staring down from the knick knack
And the parent slips for the kids' field trips
And a pair of Muckalucks scraping the shag carpet

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