I guess things were always quiet

around Putnam County

kind of 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 oldtimers would

hunker down in bib jeans and store bought boots

lyin' about their lives and the places that they'd been

suckin' on Coca Colas and be spittin' Days Work

they's be suckin' on Coca Colas

and be spittin' Day's Work

until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and

the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye

of 2am, and the Stratocaster guitars slung over

Burgermeister beer guts, and the swizzle stick legs

jacknifed over naugahyde stools and the

witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors,

the pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulge

and the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes

wearing Prince Machiavelli, Estee Lauder,

smells so sweet

I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings

over mixed drinks

and Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall

concentration as they knit their brows to

cover the entire Hank Williams Song Book

and the old National register was singing to the

tune of $57.57

until last call, one last game of 8 ball

and Berneice would be putting the chairs on the tables,

someone come in say "Hey man, anyone got

any Jumper Cables, is that a 6 or a 12 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 8 Fords

were coughing and wheezing and they

perculated 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 rattlin'

with a tool box and a pony saddle

you're grinding gears, shifting into first

yea and that goddam tranny's just getting worse

with the melodies of "see ya later"

and screwdrivers on carburettors

talkin' shop about money to loan

and palominos and strawberry roans

See ya tomorrow, hello to the Mrs.

money to borrow and goodnight kisses

the radio spittin' out Charlie Rich

sure can sing that sonofabitch

and you weave home, weavin' home

leaving the little joint winking in the

dark warm narcotic American night

beneath a pin cushion sky and it's

home to toast and honey, start

up the Ford, your lunch money's there on the

draining board, toilet's runnin' shake the

handle, telephone's ringin' it's Mrs Randal

where the hell are my goddam sandals

and the porcelain poodles and the glass swans

staring down from the knick knack shelf

with the parent permission slips for the

kids' field trips

pair of Muckalucks scraping across

the shag carpet

and the impending squint of

first light, that lurked behind

a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam

and would 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.