Luyện nghe bài hát Putnam County

I guess things were always kinda quiet Putnam County
Kinda shy and as it clung to the skirts of the 2-lane
That was stretched out like an dance floor
Where all the old in bib jeans and store bought boots
Were hunkerin' down in the dirt to lie their lives
And the places they'd been
And suck on Coca 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 over the Burger meister Beer Guts
Swizzle stick legs over naughahyde stools
And the witch hazel spread out over the floors
Pedal pushers stretched out over midriff
And the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline
Wearing Prince Machiavelli, Lauder, smells so sweet
And I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings over drinks
As Bubba and the Roadmasters in pool hall concentration
And, and knit their to cover the entire
Hank Williams songbook you like it not

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

And the GMC's and the Straight 8 were coughin' and wheezin'
And they perculated as they tossed the gravel underneath the
Weave home a wet, slick anaconda of a
irons and a crowbars a-rattlin', with a tool box and a pony saddle
You're grinding gears, shiftin' first
Yeah and goddamn tranny's just gettin' worse
the melodies of 'See ya laters' and screwdrivers on carburettors
Talkin' shop about to loan and palominos and strawberry roans

See you tomorrow, to the Mrs.
With money to borrow and goodnight
As the radio spit out Charlie
Man and he sure can sing 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 and honey

Gotta startup the Ford, yeah, your lunch right over there
On the drainin' board, and the toilet's
Ah, Christ the handle and the telephone's ringin'
It's Mrs Randal and the hell are my goddamn sandals?
What do you mean the dog chewed up my foot?
With the porcelain poodles and the glass
Staring down from the knick knack
And the permission slips for the kids' field trips
And a pair of Muckalucks across the shag carpet

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