Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Audubon, artist - C.W. McCall.
Date of issue: 31.12.1996
Song language: English
Audubon |
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 |
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 |
So I was raised on Dust Bowl tunes, you see |
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' Cafe |