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Putnam County
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Tom Waits
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I guess things were always kinda quiet around Putnam County
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Kinda shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts of the 2-lane
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That was stretched out like an asphalt dance floor
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Where all the old timers in bib jeans and store bought boots
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Were hunkerin' down in the dirt to lie about their lives
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And the places that they'd been
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And they suck on Coca Colas and be spittin' days work
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Until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and
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And the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye of 2 A.M.
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And the Stratocaster slung over the Burger meister Beer Guts
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Swizzle stick legs jackknifed over naughahyde stools
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And the witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors
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Pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulge
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And the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes
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Wearing Prince Machiavelli, Estee Lauder, smells so sweet
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And I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings over mixed drinks
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As Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall concentration
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And, and knit their brows to cover the entire
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Hank Williams songbook whether you like it not
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And the Old National register was singing to the tune of
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57 dollars and 57 cents
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And then its last call, one more game of 8 ball
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Bernice will be putting the chairs on the tables
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Someone come in say "Hey man, anyone got
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Any Jumper Cables, is that a 6 or 12 volt?"
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And all the studs in town would toss 'em down
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And claim to fame as they stomped their feet
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Yeah, boastin' about being able to get more ass than a toilet seat
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And the GMC's and the Straight 8 Fords were coughin' and wheezin'
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And they perculated as they tossed the gravel underneath the fenders
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Weave home a wet, slick anaconda of a 2-lane
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Tire irons and a crowbars a-rattlin', with a tool box and a pony saddle
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You're grinding gears, shiftin' into first
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Yeah and that goddamn tranny's just gettin' worse
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With the melodies of 'See ya laters' and screwdrivers on carburettors
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Talkin' shop about money to loan and palominos and strawberry roans
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See you tomorrow, hello to the Mrs.
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With money to borrow and goodnight kisses
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As the radio spit out Charlie Rich
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Man and he sure can sing that son of a bitch
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And you weave home, yeah, weavin' home
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Leavin' the little joint winking in the dark, warm, narcotic American night
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Beneath a pin cushion sky, it's home to toast and honey
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Gotta startup the Ford, yeah, your lunch money's right over there
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On the drainin' board, and the toilet's runnin'
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Ah, Christ shake the handle and the telephone's ringin'
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It's Mrs Randal and where the hell are my goddamn sandals?
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What do you mean the dog chewed up my left foot?
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With the porcelain poodles and the glass swans
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Staring down from the knick knack shelf
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And the parent permission slips for the kids' field trips
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And a pair of Muckalucks scraping across the shag carpet
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And the impending squint of first light
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And it that lurked behind a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam
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And they'd be pullin' up any minute now
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Just like a bastard amber, velveeta yellow cab
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On a rainy corner and be blowin' its horn, in every window in town
Tom Waits - "God's Away On Business"
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