Luyện nghe bài hát Putnam County

I guess things were always quiet around 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 jeans and store bought
Were hunkerin' down in the dirt to lie about lives
And the places that they'd
And they suck on Coca Colas and be days work
the moon 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
stick legs jackknifed over naughahyde stools
And the witch hazel spread out over the floors
Pedal pushers out over midriff bulge
And the coiffed brunette curls Maybelline eyes
Wearing Prince Machiavelli, Estee Lauder, so sweet
And I elbowed up at the counter with mixed over mixed drinks
As Bubba and the Roadmasters in pool hall concentration
And, and knit their to cover the entire
Hank songbook whether you like it not

And the Old National was singing to the tune of
57 dollars and 57
And then its last call, one more game of 8
Bernice be putting the chairs on the tables
come in say "Hey man, anyone 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 feet
Yeah, boastin' about being able to get more ass a toilet seat

And the GMC's and the Straight 8 were coughin' 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', with a box and a pony saddle
You're grinding gears, shiftin' into
Yeah and that tranny's just gettin' worse
With the 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 to borrow and goodnight kisses
As the radio spit out Charlie
Man and he sure can that son of a bitch
And you home, yeah, weavin' home
Leavin' the joint winking in the dark, warm, narcotic American night
Beneath a pin cushion sky, it's to toast and honey

Gotta startup the Ford, yeah, your lunch money's over there
On the board, and the toilet's runnin'
Ah, Christ shake the and the telephone's ringin'
It's Mrs Randal and where the hell are my sandals?
What do you mean the dog chewed up my left
With the porcelain and the glass swans
Staring down from the knick knack
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 lurked behind a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam
And be pullin' up any minute now
Just like a bastard amber, yellow cab
On a rainy corner and be its horn, in every window in town