Luyện nghe bài hát Putnam County

I guess things were always kinda quiet around County
Kinda shy and sleepy as it clung to the of the 2-lane
That was out like an asphalt dance floor
Where all the old in bib jeans and store bought boots
Were down in the dirt to lie about their lives
And the places they'd 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 swollen the naked eye of 2 A.M.

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

And the Old National register was singing to the of
57 and 57 cents
And then its call, one more game of 8 ball
Bernice will be the chairs on the tables
Someone come in say "Hey man, got
Any Cables, is that a 6 or 12 volt?"
And all the studs in town would toss 'em
And claim to fame as they stomped their
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 perculated as they tossed the gravel the fenders
Weave a wet, slick anaconda of a 2-lane
Tire irons and a a-rattlin', with a tool box and a pony saddle
You're grinding gears, shiftin' into
Yeah and that goddamn tranny's gettin' worse
With the melodies of 'See ya and screwdrivers on carburettors
Talkin' shop about to loan and palominos and strawberry roans

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

Gotta startup the Ford, yeah, lunch money's right over there
On the drainin' board, and the toilet's
Ah, Christ shake the and the telephone's ringin'
It's Mrs Randal and where the are my goddamn sandals?
What do you mean the dog up my left foot?
With the porcelain poodles and the glass
Staring down from the knack shelf
And the parent slips for the kids' field trips
And a of Muckalucks scraping across the shag carpet

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