Two-thousand-eighteen Shades Of Bromford - Part 166

Today is Wednesday, the 21st of July 2021.

A wombat, quoll and Tasmanian devil walk into a bar…
Okay – not really. That would be just crazy. None of them drink.


"Bromford County"

I guess things were always kind of quiet around Bromford County

Kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts of the two-lane

That was stretched out just like an asphalt dance floor

Where all the old-timers in bib jeans and store-bought boots

Were hunkering down in the dirt

To lie about their lives and the places that they'd been

And they'd suck on Coca-Colas, yeah, and be spitting 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 AM

And the Stratocasters slung over the burgermeister beer guts

And swizzle-stick legs jackknifed over naugahyde stools... yeah

And the witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors

And pedal-pushers stretched out over a midriff bulge

And the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes

Wearing Prince Machiavelli, or something yeah

Estee Lauder, smells so sweet

And I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings over mixed drinks

As Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall concentration and

And knit their brows to cover the entire Hank Williams songbook

Whether you like it or not

And the old National register was singing to the tune of fifty-seven dollars and fifty-seven cents yeah

And then it's last call, one more game of eight-ball

Berniece'd be putting the chairs on the tables

And someone come in and say, 'Hey man, anyone got any jumper cables?'

'Is that a 6 or a 12 volt, man? I don't know...'

Yeah, and all the studs in town would toss 'em down

And claim to fame as they stomped their feet

Yeah, boasting about being able to get more ass than a toilet seat

And the GMC's and the Straight-8 Fords were coughing and wheezing

And they percolated 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-rattling

With a tool box and a pony saddle

You're grinding gears and you're shifting into first

Yeah, and that goddamned tranny's just getting worse, man

With the melody of see-ya-laters and screwdrivers on carburetors

Talking shop about money to loan

And palominos and strawberry roans yeah

See ya tomorrow, hello to the Missus

With money to borrow and goodnight kisses

As the radio spit out Charlie Rich, man

He sure can sing that son of a bitch

And you weave home, yeah, weaving 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, gotta start up the Ford, man

Yeah, and your lunch money's right over there on the draining board

And the toilet's running Christ, shake the handle

And the telephone is ringing, it's Mrs. Randall

And where the hell are my goddamned sandals?

What you mean, the dog chewed up my left foot?

With the porcelain poodles and the glass swans

Staring down from the knickknack shelf. yeah

And the parent's permission slips for the kids' field trips

Yeah, and a pair of mukluks scraping across the shag carpet yeah

And the impending squint of first light

And it lurked behind a weeping marquee in downtown Bromford

Yeah, and it'd be pulling up any minute now

Just like a bastard amber Velveeta yellow cab on a rainy corner

And be blowing its horn in every window in town