Luyện nghe bài hát Putnam County

I guess things were kinda quiet around Putnam County
Kinda shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts of the
was stretched out like an asphalt dance floor
Where all the old timers in bib jeans and bought boots
hunkerin' down in the dirt to lie about their lives
And the that they'd been
And they suck on Coca Colas and be days work
Until the was a stray 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 meister Beer
Swizzle stick legs jackknifed naughahyde stools
And the hazel spread out over the linoleum floors
Pedal pushers stretched out over bulge
And the coiffed brunette curls over eyes
Wearing Prince Machiavelli, Estee Lauder, smells so
And I elbowed up at the counter with mixed over mixed drinks
As and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall concentration
And, and knit their brows to the entire
Hank Williams whether you like it not

And the Old National register was singing to the of
57 and 57 cents
And then its last call, one more game of 8
Bernice will be putting the 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 stomped their feet
Yeah, boastin' about being able to get more ass than a 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, anaconda of a 2-lane
Tire irons and a crowbars a-rattlin', a tool box and a pony saddle
You're grinding gears, shiftin' into
Yeah and that goddamn tranny's gettin' worse
the melodies of 'See ya laters' and screwdrivers on carburettors
Talkin' shop about money to loan and palominos and strawberry

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 home, yeah, weavin' home
Leavin' the joint winking in the dark, warm, narcotic American night
a pin cushion sky, it's home to toast and honey

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

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