Putnam County
(专辑: Nighthawks At The Diner - 1975)
I
guess things were always kind of quiet around Putnam County Kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the
skirts of the
two-lane That was stretched out just like an asphalt dance floor Where all the
old-timers in bib jeans and store bought boots Were hunkering down in the
dirt To lie about their lives and the
places that they'd been And they'd suck on Coca Colas, yeah, and be spitting Day's Work Until the
moon was a
stray dog on the
ridge and And the
taverns would be swollen until the
naked eye of two a.m. And the
Stratocasters slung over the
burgermeister beer guts And swizzle-stick legs jackknifed over naugahyde stools... yeah And the
witch hazel spread out over the
linoleum floors And pedal-pushers stretched out over a
midriff bulge And the
coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes Wearing Prince Machiavelli, or something yeah Estee Lauder, smells so sweet And I
elbowed up at the
counter with mixed feelings over mixed drinks As Bubba and the
Roadmasters moaned in pool hall concentration and And knit their brows to cover the
entire Hank Williams songbook Whether you like it or not And the
old National register was singing to the
tune of fifty-seven dollars and fifty seven cents yeah And then it's last call, one more game of eight-ball Berniece'd be putting the
chairs on the
tables And someone come in and say, 'Hey man, anyone got any jumper cables?' 'Is that a 6
or a
12 volt, man? I
don't know...' Yeah, and all the
studs in town would toss 'em down And claim to fame as they stomped their feet Yeah, boasting about being able to get more ass than a
toilet seat And the
GMC's and the
Straight-8 Fords were coughing and wheezing And they percolated as they tossed the
gravel underneath the
fenders To weave home a
wet slick anaconda of a
two-lane With tire irons and crowbars a-rattling With a
tool box and a
pony saddle You're grinding gears and you're shifting into first Yeah, and that goddamned tranny's just getting worse, man With the
melody of see-ya-laters and screwdrivers on carburetors Talking shop about money to loan And palominos and strawberry roans yeah See ya tomorrow, hello to the
Missus With money to borrow and goodnight kisses As the
radio spit out Charlie Rich, man, He sure can sing that son of a
bitch And you weave home, yeah, weaving home Leaving the
little joint winking in the
dark warm narcotic American night Beneath a
pin cushion sky And it's home to toast and honey, gotta start up the
Ford, man Yeah, and your lunch money's right over there on the
draining board And the
toilet's running Christ, shake the
handle And the
telephone is ringing, it's Mrs. Randall And where the
hell are my goddamned sandals? What you mean, the
dog chewed up my left foot? With the
porcelain poodles and the
glass swans Staring down from the
knickknack shelf. yeah And the
parent's permission slips for the
kids' field trips Yeah, and a
pair of mukluks scraping across the
shag carpet yeah And the
impending squint of first light And it lurked behind a
weeping marquee in downtown Putnam Yeah, and it'd be pulling up any minute now Just like a
bastard amber Velveeta yellow cab on a
rainy corner And be blowing its horn in every window in town