Luyện nghe bài hát Putnam County

I guess things always kinda quiet around Putnam County
Kinda shy and as it clung to the skirts of the 2-lane
That was stretched out like an dance floor
Where all the old timers in bib and store bought boots
Were hunkerin' down in the dirt to lie about their
And the places that been
And suck on Coca Colas and be spittin' days work
Until the was a stray dog on the ridge and
And the taverns would be swollen until the eye of 2 A.M.

And the Stratocaster slung over the Burger Beer Guts
Swizzle stick legs over naughahyde stools
And the witch hazel out over the linoleum floors
Pedal pushers stretched out over midriff
And the brunette curls over Maybelline eyes
Wearing Prince Machiavelli, Estee Lauder, smells so
And I elbowed up at the with mixed feelings over mixed drinks
As Bubba and the Roadmasters in pool hall concentration
And, and knit their brows to cover the
Hank Williams whether 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 come in say "Hey man, got
Any Jumper Cables, is a 6 or 12 volt?"
And all the studs in town would toss 'em
And claim to fame as they stomped their
Yeah, boastin' about being able to get more ass than a toilet

And the GMC's and the Straight 8 were coughin' and wheezin'
And they perculated as they the gravel underneath the fenders
Weave home a wet, anaconda of a 2-lane
Tire irons and a crowbars a-rattlin', with a tool box and a pony
grinding gears, shiftin' into first
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 roans

See you tomorrow, to the Mrs.
With money to and goodnight kisses
As the spit out Charlie Rich
Man and he sure can sing son of a bitch
And you home, yeah, weavin' home
Leavin' the little joint in the dark, warm, narcotic American night
Beneath a pin cushion sky, home to toast and honey

Gotta startup the Ford, yeah, your lunch money's right there
On the drainin' board, and the runnin'
Ah, Christ shake the handle and the telephone's
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 from the knack shelf
And the permission slips for the kids' field trips
And a pair of Muckalucks scraping across the carpet

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