Putnam County (Live) Lyrics
| Song | Putnam County (Live) |
| Artist | Tom Waits |
| Album | 'Round Midnight - The Minneapolis Broadcast 1975 (Live) |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : Tom Waits | |
| 作曲 : 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 two a.m., 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. |
| zuo ci : Tom Waits | |
| zuo qu : Tom Waits | |
| I guess things were always quiet | |
| Around Putnam County | |
| Kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts | |
| Of the 2lane, 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 two a. m., 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. |
| zuò cí : Tom Waits | |
| zuò qǔ : Tom Waits | |
| I guess things were always quiet | |
| Around Putnam County | |
| Kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts | |
| Of the 2lane, 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 two a. m., 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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