Well, I was born in a town called Audubon Southwest Iowa, right where it oughta been Twenty-three houses, fourteen saloons, And a feed mill in nineteen-thirty. Had a neon sign, said "Squealer Feeds" And the bus came through when they felt the need And they stopped at a place there in town called The Old Home Cafe
So I was raised on Dust Bowl tunes, you see Now my daddy was a music lovin' man He stood six-foot-seven, had big ol' hands He'd lost two fingers in a chainsaw but he could still play the violin And Mom played piana, just the keys in the middle And Dad played a storm on his three-fingered fiddle 'Cause that's all there was to do back there folks, except ta go downtown and watch haircuts
Had a six-tube radio an' no TV It was so dog-goned hot I had to wet the bed in the summer just to keep cool. Yeah, many's a night I'd lay awake A-waitin' for a distant station break Just a-settin' and a-wettin' an' a-lettin' that radio fry.
Well, I listened to Nashville and Tulsa and Dallas And Oklahoma City gave my ear a callus And I'll never forget them announcers at three A.M. They'd come on an' say "Friends, there's many a soul who needs us "So send them letters an' cards ta Jesus "That's J-E-S-U-S friends, in care a' Del Rio, Texas."
But the place I remember, on the edge a' town Was the place where you really got the hard-core sound Yeah, a place where the truckers used ta stop on their way to Dees Moins There was signs all over them windowsills Like "If the Devil don't get ya, then Roosevelt will" And "The bank don't sell no beer, and we don't cash no checks."
Now them truckers never talked about nothin' but haulin' And the four-letter words was really appallin' They thought them home-town gals was nothin' but toys for their amusement. Rode Chevys and Macks and big ol' stacks They's always complainin' 'bout their livers an' backs But they was fast-livin', strung-out, truck-drivin' son of a guns
Now the gal waitin' tables was really classy Had a rebuilt motor on a fairly new chassis And she knew how to handle them truckers; name was Mavis Davis Yeah, she'd pour 'em a coffee, then she'd bat her eyes Then she'd listen to 'em tell 'er some big fat lies Then she'd ask 'em how the wife and kids was, back there in Joplin?
Now Mavis had all of her ducks in a row Weighed ninety-eight pounds; put on quite a show Remind ya of a couple a' Cub Scouts tryin' ta set up a Sears, Roebuck pup tent There's no proposition that she couldn't handle Next ta her, nothin' could hold a candle Not a hell of a lot upstairs, but from there on down, Disneyland!
Now the truckers, on the other hand, was really crass They remind ya of fingernails a-scratchin' on glass A-stompin' on in, leavin' tracks all over the Montgomery Ward linoleum Yeah, they'd pound them counters and kick them stools They's always pickin' fights with the local fools But one look at Mavis, and they'd turn into a bunch a' tomcats
Well, I'll never forget them days gone by I's just a kid, 'bout four foot high But I never forgot that lesson an' pickin' and singin', the country way Yeah, them walkin', talkin' truck stop blues Came back ta life in seventy-two As "The Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin' Cafe"
Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin' Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin' Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin' Cafe Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin' Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin' Oh, the Old Home Filler-up An' Keep On A-Truckin' CafeTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
