Luyện nghe bài hát Putnam County

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

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

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

And the GMC's and the Straight 8 Fords coughin' and wheezin'
And perculated as they tossed the gravel underneath the fenders
home a wet, slick anaconda of a 2-lane
Tire irons and a crowbars a-rattlin', with a tool box and a pony
You're grinding gears, shiftin' into
Yeah and that tranny's just gettin' worse
With the melodies of 'See ya laters' and 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 Rich
Man and he sure can sing son of a bitch
And you home, yeah, weavin' home
Leavin' the little joint winking in the dark, warm, narcotic American
Beneath a pin sky, it's home to toast and honey

startup the Ford, yeah, your lunch money's right over there
On the drainin' board, and the runnin'
Ah, shake the handle and the telephone's ringin'
Mrs Randal 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 permission slips for the kids' field
And a pair of Muckalucks across 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
like a bastard amber, velveeta yellow cab
On a rainy corner and be its horn, in every window in town