The Ghosts Of Saturday Night (After Hours At Napoleone's Pizza House)

A cab combs the snake, Tryin' to rake in that last night's fare, And a solitary sailor Who spends the facts of his life like small change on strangers Paws his inside P-coat pocket for a welcome twenty-five cents, And the last bent butt from a package of Kents, As he dreams of a waitress with Maxwell House eyes And marmalade thighs with scrambled yellow hair Her rhinestone-studded moniker says, Irene As she wipes the wisps of dishwater blonde from her eyes And the Texaco beacon burns on, The steel-belted attendant with a ring and valve special Cryin' fill'er up and check that oil You know it could be a distributor and it could be a coil The early mornin' final edition's on the stands, And that town cryer's cryin' there with nickels in his hands Pigs in a blanket sixty-nine cents Eggs, roll 'em over and a package of Kents Adam and Eve on a log, you can sink 'em damn straight Hash browns, hash browns, you know I can't be late And the early dawn cracks out a carpet of diamonds Across a cash crop car lot filled with twilight Coupe Devilles Leaving the town in a-keeping Of the one who is sweeping Up the ghost of Saturday night --- The Ghosts of Saturday Night (After Hours at Napoleone's Pizza House) - Tom Waits