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 asphalt dance
Where all the old timers in bib and store bought boots
Were hunkerin' down in the to lie about 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 would be swollen the naked eye of 2 A.M.

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

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

And the GMC's and the Straight 8 Fords were and wheezin'
And perculated as they tossed the gravel underneath the fenders
Weave home a wet, slick anaconda of a
Tire and a crowbars a-rattlin', with a tool box and a pony saddle
You're grinding gears, into first
Yeah and that goddamn tranny's just gettin'
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 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 night
Beneath a pin cushion sky, home to toast and honey

Gotta 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'
It's Mrs Randal and the hell are my goddamn sandals?
What do you mean the dog up my left foot?
the porcelain poodles and the glass swans
Staring down the knick knack shelf
And the permission slips for the kids' field trips
And a pair of Muckalucks across the shag carpet

And the impending squint of first
And it lurked behind a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam
And be pullin' up any minute now
Just like a amber, velveeta yellow cab
On a rainy corner and be blowin' its horn, in every in town