Ratchetjaw – C.W. McCall – letras

(C.W. McCall, Bill Fries, Chip Davis)YEE-HAW! Merciful sakes alive! You wanna be one a’ them CBers, you gonna learn how to ratchetjaw! Pay attention now; I’m only gonna explain it to ya once.You gotta go runnin’ amuck in a pick-’em-up truckWith one a’ those fancy sidebands?Get four-on-the-floor and two on the doorGet a power mike in yer jaw-handPrepare to strike when ya key the mike’Cause ya never know who’s a-listenin’Some clown insists on a 10-36This here’s what you give ‘im: »Four, good buddy, I made me a studyAn’ I figger it’s the dark a’ the moon, sonIt’s half-past spring an’ a quarter ta fallAn’ the big hand’s a-settin’ on noon, sonNow if the fish don’t bite and the almanac’s rightAnd the groundhog sees his shadowA 10-36 goes tick-tock-tick. »And that’s what I call ratchetjaw!Gotta git ya a base, out there at yer placeWith a forty-foot pole on the chimneyWith a thousand watts in yer flowerpotsAnd a ree-mote line in the biffyIf ya feel a twitch when ya throw the switchYa gonna dim all the lights in WichitaGonna send out a wave ta make the government raveAnd this here’s whatcha tell ’em all: »Yeah, four, good buddy, yer comin’ in cruddyBut yer walkin’ right through my wall, boyYer carrier’s cool, you makin’ me droolYou were definitely battin’ my ball, boyYou hittin’ me round about fifteen poundYou cut me up like a bandsawBut what the heck, it’s just a radio check. »And that there’s how to ratchetjaw[CB conversations. They’re overlaid, as if you’re listening to a party line.][Woman’s voice] Breaker, breaker, breaker, breaker. We lookin’ for that one Buffalo Roy out there. Buffalo Roy, what’s your twenty? Where are you anyway, Buffalo Roy? Are you out there? Come on in there, Buffalo Roy. 10-4.[Man’s voice] Lissen, you. Shut up on all them breakers. One breaker’s enough. [words missing]…channel all the time. Can’t hear a damn thing anybody’s sayin’.[C.W.] Buffalo Roy? That’s a dumb handle.Wanna feel some pain? Just turn up yer gainGet a fearful earful a’ garbageTa suppress a belch, just hit yer squelchYou can cut out all the carnageYou wanna have fun, you son-of-a-gunsJust get on the press-ta-talk switchYou gonna amuse ’em an’ really confuse ’emWith a little ol’ thing called ratchetjawYeah, let them suckers think yer a truckerSay stuff they can’t understand, sonJust bounce up-an’-down while yer toolin’ aroundGonna sound like a truck-drivin’ man, sonJust tell yer beaver that you gonna leave ‘erYou catch her on the bounce-aroundIf she comes back with a smart-off crackSay « X-Y-L, it’s show-an’-tell. We definitely got us to go now.Keep yer pants on honey, hang onto the moneyYer X-Y-M’s gotta blow nowEighty-eight, thirds, and feed my birdAn’ all them numbers upon ya allIf speed don’t kill, then CB will. »And that’s what I call ratchetjaw[More CB conversations.]Breaker, breaker, breaker, breaker, breaker, breaker, [repeated almost ad infinitum, punctuated by bouts of laughter][Man’s voice. Begins deep, slowly rising to Shirley and Squirrely squeakiness.] Yeah, 10-4, we got ya, breaker. Come back on that? Say, what kind a’… s’not? some kind a’ cotton-pickin’… you puttin’ me on, aren’t cha? Yeah, you puttin’ me on, aren’t cha? [Laughter] 10-4. 10-4.