Lyric 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