I guess things was always kinda quiet
around Putnam County
Kinda shy and sleepy
as it clung to the skirts of the two-lane
that was stretched out like an asphalt dance floor.
Where all the old timers in big jeans
and storebought boots
were hunkerin’ down in the dirt
to lie about their lives and the places they’ve been
And they’d suck on Coca-colas
And be spittin days’ work
Until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge
And the taverns would be swollen
until the naked eye of 2 AM
And the Stratocasters slung over the Burgermeister Beer Guts
Swizzlestick legs jackknifed over naughahyde stools
And the witch hazel spread out over linoleum floors
Pedal pushers stretched out over a midriff bulge
And the quaffed brunette curls over Mabeline eyes
Wearin’ prince matchin’ belly or somethin
And the water smells so sweet
And my eye over the counter
with mixed feelings over mixed drinks
As Bubba and the road masters
moan in poolhall concentration
and knit their brows
to cover the entire Hank Williams songbook
whether you like it or not
And the Old National register was singin to the tune
of fifty seven dollars and fifty seven cents
And it’s last call
One more game of eight ball
Bernice’ll be puttin the chairs on the tables.
And someone come in and said
«Hey man anybody got any jumper cables?»
«Is that a six or twelve volt?»
«…man I dunno…»
And all the studs in town
would toss em’ down
And claim to fame
as they stomp their feet
boastin’ about bein’ able to get more ass than a toilet seat
And the GMCs and the straight A Fords
were coughin and wheezin
And they perculated as they tossed the gravel underneath the fenders
and weave home a wet-slick Anaconda of a two lane
Tire irons and crowbars a-rattlin
With a toolbox and a pony saddle
You’re grindin gears as you switch into first
That tranny’s just gettin’ worse
With a melody of see you laters
And screwdrivers on carbeurators
Talkin shop about money to loan,
Halabino’s Strawberry Rolls
See you tomorrow
Hello to the Missus
Money to borrow
Goodnight kisses
As the radio spits out Charlie Rich
And that jerk can’t sing
that son of a bitch
And you weave home
Yeah, weavin’ home
Leavin’ the little joint winking
in the dark, warm, narcotic American night
beneath a pin-cushion sky
It’s almond toasted honey
gotta start up at four
yeah the lunch money’s there on the ironin board
And the toilet’s runnin
Ah, Christ, shake the handle
And the telephone’s ringing,
it’s Mrs. Randle
and where the hell are my goddamn sandles?
I mean the dog chewed up my left foot
With the porcelein poodles and the glass swans starin’ down from the knickknack shelves
and the parent permission slips for the kids’ field trips
And a pair of Muckelaks
strafin’ across the shag carpet
And the impending squint of first light
And it lurked behind a weepin marquee
of Downtown Putnam
Now it’ll be pullin up any minute now
Like a bastard, amber, Velveeta yellow cab
On a rainy corner
And he’s blowin his horn
in every window in town.
