I guess things were always quiet around Putnam County   kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts   of the 2-lane, that was stretched out like an   asphalt dance floor where all the oldtimers would   hunker down in bib jeans and store bought boots   lyin' about their lives and the places that they'd been   suckin' on Coca Colas and be spittin' Days Work   they's be suckin' on Coca Colas and be spittin' Day's Work   until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and   the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye   of 2am, and the Stratocaster guitars slung over   Burgermeister beer guts, and the swizzle stick legs   jacknifed over naugahyde stools and the   witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors,   the pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulge   and the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes   wearing Prince Machiavelli, Estee Lauder, smells so sweet   I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings   over mixed drinks   and Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall   concentration as they knit their brows to   cover the entire Hank Williams Song Book   and the old National register was singing to the   tune of $57.57   until last call, one last game of 8 ball   and Berneice would be putting the chairs on the tables,   someone come in say "Hey man, anyone got   any Jumper Cables, is that a 6 or a 12 volt?"   and all the studs in town would toss 'em down   and claim to fame as they stomped their feet   boasting about being able to get more ass   than a toilet seat.   And the GMCs and the Straight 8 Fords   were coughing and wheezing and they   perculated 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 rattlin'   with a tool box and a pony saddle   you're grinding gears, shifting into first   yea and that goddam tranny's just getting worse   with the melodies of "see ya later"   and screwdrivers on carburettors   talkin' shop about money to loan   and palominos and strawberry roans   See ya tomorrow, hello to the Mrs.   money to borrow and goodnight kisses   the radio spittin' out Charlie Rich   sure can sing that sonofabitch   and you weave home, weavin' 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, start   up the Ford, your lunch money's there on the   draining board, toilet's runnin' shake the   handle, telephone's ringin' it's Mrs Randal   where the hell are my goddam sandals   and the porcelain poodles and the glass swans   staring down from the knick knack shelf   with the parent permission slips for the   kids' field trips   pair of Muckalucks scraping across   the shag carpet   and the impending squint of   first light, that lurked behind   a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam   and would be pullin' up any minute now   just like a bastard amber   Velveeta yellow cab on a rainy corner   and be blowin' its horn, in every window   in town.