The Ghosts of Saturday Night (After Hours at Napoleone’s Pizza House) - Tom Waits

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."

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