The Ghost of Saturday Night - Tom Waits

(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 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...