Well, I was born in a town called Audubon   Southwest Iowa, right where it oughta been   Twenty-three houses, fourteen saloons,    And a feed mill in nineteen-thirty.   Had a neon sign, said "Squealer Feeds"   And the bus came through when they felt the need   And they stopped at a place there in town called The Old Home Cafe       So I was raised on Dust Bowl tunes, you see   Now my daddy was a music lovin' man   He stood six-foot-seven, had big ol' hands   He'd lost two fingers in a chainsaw but he could still play the violin   And Mom played piana, just the keys in the middle   And Dad played a storm on his three-fingered fiddle   'Cause that's all there was to do back there folks, except ta go downtown and watch haircuts       Had a six-tube radio an' no TV   It was so dog-goned hot I had to wet the bed in the summer just to keep cool.   Yeah, many's a night I'd lay awake   A-waitin' for a distant station break   Just a-settin' and a-wettin' an' a-lettin' that radio fry.       Well, I listened to Nashville and Tulsa and Dallas   And Oklahoma City gave my ear a callus   And I'll never forget them announcers at three A.M.   They'd come on an' say "Friends, there's many a soul who needs us   "So send them letters an' cards ta Jesus   "That's J-E-S-U-S friends, in care a' Del Rio, Texas."       But the place I remember, on the edge a' town   Was the place where you really got the hard-core sound   Yeah, a place where the truckers used ta stop on their way to Dees Moins   There was signs all over them windowsills   Like "If the Devil don't get ya, then Roosevelt will"   And "The bank don't sell no beer, and we don't cash no checks."       Now them truckers never talked about nothin' but haulin'   And the four-letter words was really appallin'   They thought them home-town gals was nothin' but toys for their amusement.   Rode Chevys and Macks and big ol' stacks   They's always complainin' 'bout their livers an' backs   But they was fast-livin', strung-out, truck-drivin' son of a guns       Now the gal waitin' tables was really classy   Had a rebuilt motor on a fairly new chassis   And she knew how to handle them truckers; name was Mavis Davis   Yeah, she'd pour 'em a coffee, then she'd bat her eyes   Then she'd listen to 'em tell 'er some big fat lies   Then she'd ask 'em how the wife and kids was, back there in Joplin?       Now Mavis had all of her ducks in a row   Weighed ninety-eight pounds; put on quite a show   Remind ya of a couple a' Cub Scouts tryin' ta set up a Sears, Roebuck pup tent   There's no proposition that she couldn't handle   Next ta her, nothin' could hold a candle   Not a hell of a lot upstairs, but from there on down, Disneyland!       Now the truckers, on the other hand, was really crass   They remind ya of fingernails a-scratchin' on glass   A-stompin' on in, leavin' tracks all over the Montgomery Ward linoleum   Yeah, they'd pound them counters and kick them stools   They's always pickin' fights with the local fools   But one look at Mavis, and they'd turn into a bunch a' tomcats       Well, I'll never forget them days gone by   I's just a kid, 'bout four foot high   But I never forgot that lesson an' pickin' and singin', the country way   Yeah, them walkin', talkin' truck stop blues   Came back ta life in seventy-two   As "The Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin' Cafe"       Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin'   Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin'   Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin' Cafe   Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin'   Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin'   Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin' Cafe