text: I guess things were always kind of quiet around Putnam County
  Kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts of the two-lane
  That was stretched out just like an asphalt dance floor
  Where all the old-timers in bib jeans and store-bought boots
  Were hunkering down in the dirt
  To lie about their lives and the places that theyd been
  And theyd suck on Coca-Colas, yeah, and be spitting Days Work
  Until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge
  And the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye of two AM
  And the Stratocasters slung over the burgermeister beer guts
  And swizzle-stick legs jackknifed over naugahyde stools... yeah
  And the witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors
  And pedal-pushers stretched out over a midriff bulge
  And the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes
  Wearing Prince Machiavelli, or something yeah
  Estee Lauder, smells so sweet
  And I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings over mixed drinks
  As Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall concentration and
  And knit their brows to cover the entire Hank Williams songbook
  Whether you like it or not
  And the old National register was singing to the tune of fifty-seven dollars and fifty-seven cents yeah
  And then its last call, one more game of eight-ball
  Bernieced be putting the chairs on the tables
  And someone come in and say, Hey man, anyone got any jumper cables?
  Is that a 6 or a 12 volt, man? I dont know...
  Yeah, and all the studs in town would toss em down
  And claim to fame as they stomped their feet
  Yeah, boasting about being able to get more ass than a toilet seat
  And the GMCs and the Straight-8 Fords were coughing and wheezing
  And they percolated as they tossed the gravel underneath the fenders
  To weave home a wet slick anaconda of a two-lane
  With tire irons and crowbars a-rattling
  With a tool box and a pony saddle
  Youre grinding gears and youre shifting into first
  Yeah, and that goddamned trannys just getting worse, man
  With the melody of see-ya-laters and screwdrivers on carburetors
  Talking shop about money to loan
  And palominos and strawberry roans yeah
  See ya tomorrow, hello to the Missus
  With money to borrow and goodnight kisses
  As the radio spit out Charlie Rich, man
  He sure can sing that son of a bitch
  And you weave home, yeah, weaving home
  Leaving the little joint winking in the dark warm narcotic American night
  Beneath a pin cushion sky
  And its home to toast and honey, gotta start up the Ford, man
  Yeah, and your lunch moneys right over there on the draining board
  And the toilets running Christ, shake the handle
  And the telephone is ringing, its Mrs. Randall
  And where the hell are my goddamned sandals?
  What you mean, the dog chewed up my left foot?
  With the porcelain poodles and the glass swans
  Staring down from the knickknack shelf. yeah
  And the parents permission slips for the kids field trips
  Yeah, and a pair of mukluks scraping across the shag carpet yeah
  And the impending squint of first light
  And it lurked behind a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam
  Yeah, and itd be pulling up any minute now
  Just like a bastard amber Velveeta yellow cab on a rainy corner
  And be blowing its horn in every window in town