I guess things was always kinda quiet

around Putnam County

Kinda shy and sleepy

as it clung to the skirts of the two-lane

that was stretched out like an asphalt dance floor.



Where all the old timers in big jeans

and storebought boots

were hunkerin' down in the dirt

to lie about their lives and the places they've been



And they'd suck on Coca-colas

And be spittin days' work

Until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge

And the taverns would be swollen

until the naked eye of 2 AM



And the Stratocasters slung over the Burgermeister Beer Guts

Swizzlestick legs jackknifed over naughahyde stools

And the witch hazel spread out over linoleum floors

Pedal pushers stretched out over a midriff bulge

And the quaffed brunette curls over Mabeline eyes

Wearin' prince matchin' belly or somethin

And the water smells so sweet



And my eye over the counter

with mixed feelings over mixed drinks

As Bubba and the road masters

moan in poolhall concentration

and knit their brows

to cover the entire Hank Williams songbook

whether you like it or not



And the Old National register was singin to the tune

of fifty seven dollars and fifty seven cents



And it's last call

One more game of eight ball

Bernice'll be puttin the chairs on the tables.

And someone come in and said

"Hey man anybody got any jumper cables?"

"Is that a six or twelve volt?"

"...man I dunno..."



And all the studs in town

would toss em' down

And claim to fame

as they stomp their feet

boastin' about bein' able to get more ass than a toilet seat



And the GMCs and the straight A Fords 

were coughin and wheezin

And they perculated as they tossed the gravel underneath the fenders

and weave home a wet-slick Anaconda of a two lane



Tire irons and crowbars a-rattlin

With a toolbox and a pony saddle

You're grindin gears as you switch into first

That tranny's just gettin' worse



With a melody of see you laters

And screwdrivers on carbeurators

Talkin shop about money to loan,

Halabino's Strawberry Rolls



See you tomorrow

Hello to the Missus

Money to borrow

Goodnight kisses



As the radio spits out Charlie Rich

And that jerk can't sing

that son of a bitch



And you weave home

Yeah, weavin' home

Leavin' the little joint winking

in the dark, warm, narcotic American night

beneath a pin-cushion sky

It's almond toasted honey

gotta start up at four

yeah the lunch money's there on the ironin board



And the toilet's runnin

Ah, Christ, shake the handle

And the telephone's ringing,

it's Mrs. Randle

and where the hell are my goddamn sandles?

I mean the dog chewed up my left foot



With the porcelein poodles and the glass swans starin' down from the knickknack shelves

and the parent permission slips for the kids' field trips



And a pair of Muckelaks

strafin' across the shag carpet

And the impending squint of first light

And it lurked behind a weepin marquee

of Downtown Putnam



Now it'll be pullin up any minute now

Like a bastard, amber, Velveeta yellow cab

On a rainy corner

And he's blowin his horn

in every window in town.