Luyện nghe bài hát Putnam County

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

And the Stratocaster slung over the Burger meister Guts
Swizzle legs jackknifed over naughahyde stools
And the hazel spread out over the linoleum floors
Pedal pushers stretched out midriff bulge
And the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline
Wearing Machiavelli, Estee Lauder, smells so sweet
And I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings mixed drinks
As Bubba and the Roadmasters in pool hall concentration
And, and knit their to cover the entire
Hank Williams songbook 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 of 8 ball
Bernice will be putting the chairs on the
come in say "Hey man, anyone got
Any Cables, is that a 6 or 12 volt?"
And all the in town would toss 'em down
And to fame as they stomped their feet
Yeah, boastin' about being able to get more ass than a toilet

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

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

Gotta startup the Ford, yeah, your lunch right over there
On the drainin' board, and the runnin'
Ah, shake the handle and the telephone's ringin'
It's Mrs Randal and the hell are my goddamn sandals?
What do you the dog chewed up my left foot?
With the porcelain poodles and the swans
Staring down from the knack shelf
And the parent permission slips for the kids' field
And a pair of Muckalucks scraping across the shag

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