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Tom Waits
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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 the distributor and it could be your coil.'
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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 diamond
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
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