Putnam County Lyrics - Nighthawks At The Diner - Tom Waits

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. 

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