Favourite Song lyrics


‘Kentucky Avenue’ - Tom Waits

Well Eddie Grace’s Buick got four bullet holes in the side
And Charlie DeLisle is sittin at the top of an avocado tree
Mrs. Storm will stab you with a steak knife if you step on her lawn
I got a half a pack of Lucky Strikes man so come along with me
And let’s fill our pockets with macadamia nuts
And go over to Bobby Goodmanson’s and jump off the roof

Well Hilda plays strip poker with the Mummers 'cross the street
Joey Navinski says she put her tongue in his mouth
And Dicky Faulkner’s got a switchblade and some gooseneck risers
That eucalyptus is a hunchback there’s a wind down from the south
So let me tie you up with kite string and I’ll show you the scabs on my knee
Watch out for the broken glass put your shoes and socks on
And come along with me

Let’s follow that fire truck I think your house is burnin down
And go down to the hobo jungle and kill some rattlesnakes with a trowel
And we’ll break all the windows in the old Anderson place
And we’ll steal a bunch of boysenberries and I’ll smear em on your face
I’ll get a dollar from my mama’s purse and buy that skull and crossbones ring
And you can wear it round your neck on an old piece of string

Then we’ll spit on Ronnie Arnold and flip him the bird
And slash the tires on the school bus now don’t say a word
I’ll take a rusty nail and scratch your initials in my arm
And I’ll show you how to sneak up on the roof of the drugstore
I’ll take the spokes from your wheelchair and a magpie’s wings
And I’ll tie 'em to your shoulders and your feet
I’ll steal a hacksaw from my dad and cut the braces off your legs
And we’ll bury them tonight out in the cornfield
Just put a church key in your pocket we’ll hop that freight train in the hall
We’ll slide all the way down the drain to New Orleans in the fall



‘Putnam County’ - Tom Waits

I guess things were always kind of quiet around Putnam 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
And the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye of two a.m
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 Putnam
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


‘Snow Angel’ - Ron Sexsmith

Strange how their love bloomed in the winter
Only to vanish in the spring
It never fails to make him shiver
To see the outline of her wings
Where she made her last snow angel
Little did they know
That it’d make a lasting impression
Deeper than the snow
In his soul, snow angel never faded
And when love calls to make that promise
One to be faithful and be true
It’s then temptation falls upon us
The world turns awkward and aloof
And with this betrayal
An angel descended from on high
Oh, but this was not a manger
And as he came inside to his fright
T’was no angel hanging naked
Strange how each year ‘round late November
When the first snow is on the ground
She reappears so he’ll remember
How a love so young can be cut down’
When she made her last snow angel
Little did they know
That it’d make a lasting impression
Deeper than the snow
In his soul, snow angel never faded
In his soul snow angel never faded