Songtext Putnam county von Tom Waits

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Nighthawks at the diner

1975

01. Open intro
02. (opening intro)
03. Emotional weather report
04. On a foggy night
05. Eggs and sausage (in a cadillac with susan michelson)
06. Better off without a wife
07. Nighthawk postcards (from easy street)
08. Warm beer and cold women
09. Putnam county
10. Spare parts i (a nocturnal emission)
11. Nobody
12. Big joe and phantom 309
13. Spare parts ii and closing

Putnam county

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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songtext*

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.