Luyện nghe bài hát Putnam County

I guess things were always kinda quiet Putnam County
Kinda shy and as it clung to the skirts of the 2-lane
was stretched out like an asphalt dance floor
Where all the old timers in bib jeans and bought boots
Were hunkerin' down in the dirt to lie about lives
And the places that been
And suck on Coca Colas and be spittin' days work
the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and
And the taverns would be until the naked eye of 2 A.M.

And the Stratocaster over the Burger meister Beer Guts
Swizzle stick jackknifed over naughahyde stools
And the witch hazel spread out over the floors
pushers stretched out over midriff bulge
And the coiffed brunette curls over eyes
Wearing Machiavelli, Estee Lauder, smells so sweet
And I elbowed up at the counter with mixed over mixed drinks
As Bubba and the Roadmasters in pool hall concentration
And, and knit their to cover the entire
Hank Williams whether you like it not

And the Old National register was singing to the of
57 dollars and 57
And then its last call, one more game of 8
Bernice will be putting the on the tables
come in say "Hey man, anyone got
Any Cables, is that a 6 or 12 volt?"
And all the studs in town toss 'em down
And claim to fame as stomped their feet
Yeah, boastin' about being to get more ass than a toilet seat

And the GMC's and the Straight 8 Fords were and wheezin'
And perculated as they tossed the gravel underneath the fenders
home a wet, slick anaconda of a 2-lane
Tire irons and a crowbars a-rattlin', with a tool box and a saddle
You're gears, shiftin' into first
Yeah and that goddamn tranny's gettin' worse
With the melodies of ya laters' and screwdrivers on carburettors
Talkin' shop about money to loan and and strawberry roans

See you tomorrow, to the Mrs.
With money to borrow and goodnight
As the radio spit out Rich
Man and he can sing that son of a bitch
And you home, yeah, weavin' home
Leavin' the little joint in the dark, warm, narcotic American night
a pin cushion sky, it's home to toast and honey

Gotta startup the Ford, yeah, your lunch money's over there
On the board, and the toilet's runnin'
Ah, Christ the handle and the telephone's ringin'
It's Mrs Randal and where the hell are my goddamn
What do you mean the dog chewed up my left
the porcelain poodles and the glass swans
Staring down from the knick shelf
And the parent permission slips for the kids' field
And a pair of scraping across the shag carpet

And the impending squint of first
And it that lurked behind a weeping marquee in Putnam
And be pullin' up any minute now
Just like a amber, velveeta yellow cab
On a rainy corner and be blowin' its horn, in every in town