Luyện nghe bài hát Putnam County

I guess things were always quiet around Putnam County
shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts of the 2-lane
That was out like an asphalt dance floor
all the old timers in bib jeans and store bought boots
Were hunkerin' down in the dirt to lie their lives
And the that 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 would be swollen until the naked eye of 2 A.M.

And the Stratocaster slung over the Burger Beer Guts
Swizzle stick legs jackknifed naughahyde stools
And the witch spread out over the linoleum floors
Pedal pushers stretched out over bulge
And the coiffed brunette curls Maybelline eyes
Wearing Machiavelli, Estee Lauder, smells so sweet
And I up at the counter with mixed feelings over mixed drinks
As Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool concentration
And, and knit brows 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 its last call, one more game of 8 ball
Bernice will be putting the chairs on the
Someone in say "Hey man, anyone got
Any Cables, is that a 6 or 12 volt?"
And all the studs in town toss 'em down
And claim to fame as they stomped feet
Yeah, boastin' about being able to get ass than a toilet seat

And the and the Straight 8 Fords were coughin' and wheezin'
And they perculated as they 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 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 to loan and palominos and strawberry roans

See you tomorrow, to the Mrs.
With money to borrow and 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 joint winking in the dark, warm, narcotic American night
Beneath a pin cushion sky, it's home to and honey

Gotta startup the Ford, yeah, lunch money's 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 where the hell are my goddamn
What do you the dog chewed up my left foot?
With the porcelain poodles and the glass
Staring down from the knick shelf
And the parent permission for the kids' field trips
And a pair of scraping across the shag carpet

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