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Putnam County
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Waits Tom
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Waits Tom
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Nighthawks
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Putnam County
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I guess things were always quiet
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around Putnam County
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kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts
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of the 2-lane, that was stretched out like an
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asphalt dance floor where all the oldtimers would
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hunker down in bib jeans and store bought boots
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lyin' about their lives and the places that they'd been
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suckin' on Coca Colas and be spittin' Days Work
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they's be suckin' on Coca Colas
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and be spittin' Day's Work
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until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and
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the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye
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of 2am, and the Stratocaster guitars slung over
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Burgermeister beer guts, and the swizzle stick legs
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jacknifed over naugahyde stools and the
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witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors,
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the 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,
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smells so sweet
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I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings
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over mixed drinks
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and Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall
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concentration as they knit their brows to
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cover the entire Hank Williams Song Book
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and the old National register was singing to the
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tune of $57.57
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until last call, one last game of 8 ball
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and Berneice would 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 a 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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boasting about being able to get more ass
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than a toilet seat.
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And the GMCs and the Straight 8 Fords
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were coughing and wheezing and they
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perculated as they tossed the gravel
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underneath the fenders to weave home
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a wet slick anaconda of a two lane
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with tire irons and crowbars a rattlin'
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with a tool box and a pony saddle
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you're grinding gears, shifting into first
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yea and that goddam tranny's just getting worse
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with the melodies of "see ya later"
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and screwdrivers on carburettors
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talkin' shop about money to loan
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and palominos and strawberry roans
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See ya tomorrow, hello to the Mrs.
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money to borrow and goodnight kisses
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the radio spittin' out Charlie Rich
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sure can sing that sonofabitch
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and you weave home, weavin' home
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leaving the little joint winking in the
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dark warm narcotic American night
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beneath a pin cushion sky and it's
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home to toast and honey, start
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up the Ford, your lunch money's there on the
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draining board, toilet's runnin' shake the
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handle, telephone's ringin' it's Mrs Randal
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where the hell are my goddam sandals
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and the porcelain poodles and the glass swans
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staring down from the knick knack shelf
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with the parent permission slips for the
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kids' field trips
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pair of Muckalucks scraping across
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the shag carpet
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and the impending squint of
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first light, that lurked behind
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a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam
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and would be pullin' up any minute now
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just like a bastard amber
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Velveeta yellow cab on a rainy corner
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and be blowin' its horn, in every window
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in town.
Tom Waits - Hope I don't fall in love wi...
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