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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

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

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