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Testo Putnam County - Tom Waits

Testo della canzone Putnam County (Tom Waits), tratta dall'album Nighthawks At The Diner (Remastered)

I guess things were always kinda quiet around Putnam County
Kinda 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 they'd been
And they'd suck on Coca-Colas and be spitting day's work
Until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge
And the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye of two a.m
And the Stratocasters slung over the Burgermeister beer guts
And swizzle stick legs jackknifed over Naugahyde stools
And the witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors
And pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulges
And the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes
Wearing Prince Mazzabelli's, oh 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 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
And then it's last call and one more game of eight ball
Bernice will be puttin' the chairs on the tables
And someone come in and say, "Hey man, anybody got any jumper cables?"
"Is that a six or twelve volt?"
And all the studs in town would toss 'em down
And claim to fame as they stomped their feet
Boasting about being able to get more ass than a toilet seat
And the GMCs and the straight-eight 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
And tire irons and a crowbar's a-rattling
With a toolbox and a pony saddle
You're grinding gears and you're shifting into first
Yeah, and that goddamn tranny's just getting worse, man
With a melody of see you laters and screwdrivers on carburetors
Talking shop about money to loan
And Palominos and strawberry roans
See you tomorrow, hello to the missus
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, weaving home
Leaving the little joint winking in
The dark warm narcotic American night
Beneath a pin cushion sky
It's home to toast and honey, gotta start up a Ford
And your lunch money's right over there on the draining board
And the toilet's running, Christ, shake the handle
And the telephone's ringing, it's Mrs. Randall
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 Muck-A-Lucks scraping across the shag carpet
And the impending squint of first light
And it lurked behind a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam
And it'd 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



Credits
Writer(s): Thomas Alan Waits
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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