text: I guess things were always kinda quiet around Putnam County
  Kinda shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts of the 2-lane
  That was stretched out like an asphalt dance floor
  Where all the old timers in bib jeans and store bought boots
  Were hunkerin down in the dirt to lie about their lives
  And the places that theyd been
  And they suck on Coca Colas and be spittin days work
  Until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and
  And the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye of 2 A.M
  And the Stratocaster slung over the Burger meister Beer Guts
  Swizzle stick legs jackknifed over naughahyde stools
  And the witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors
  Pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulge
  And the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes
  Wearing Prince Machiavelli, 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 not
  And the Old National register was singing to the tune of
  57 dollars and 57 cents
  And then its last call, one more game of 8 ball
  Bernice will be putting the chairs on the tables
  Someone come in say Hey man, anyone got
  Any Jumper Cables, is that a 6 or 12 volt?
  And all the studs in town would toss em down
  And claim to fame as they stomped their feet
  Yeah, boastin about being able to get more ass than a toilet seat
  And the GMCs and the Straight 8 Fords were coughin and wheezin
  And they perculated as they tossed the gravel underneath the fenders
  Weave home a wet, slick anaconda of a 2-lane
  Tire irons and a crowbars a-rattlin, with a tool box and a pony saddle
  Youre grinding gears, shiftin into first
  Yeah and that goddamn trannys just gettin worse
  With the melodies of See ya laters and screwdrivers on carburettors
  Talkin shop about money to loan and palominos and strawberry roans
  See you tomorrow, hello to the Mrs
  With money to borrow and goodnight kisses
  As the radio spit out Charlie Rich
  Man and he sure can sing that son of a bitch
  And you weave home, yeah, weavin home
  Leavin the little joint winking in the dark, warm, narcotic American night
  Beneath a pin cushion sky, its home to toast and honey
  Gotta startup the Ford, yeah, your lunch moneys right over there
  On the drainin board, and the toilets runnin
  Ah, Christ shake the handle and the telephones ringin
  Its Mrs Randal and where the hell are my goddamn sandals?
  What do you mean the dog chewed up my left foot?
  With the porcelain poodles and the glass swans
  Staring down from the knick knack shelf
  And the parent permission slips for the kids field trips
  And a pair of Muckalucks scraping across the shag carpet
  And the impending squint of first light
  And it that lurked behind a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam
  And theyd be pullin up any minute now
  Just like a bastard amber, velveeta yellow cab
  On a rainy corner and be blowin its horn, in every window in town