The Ghosts Of Saturday Night - 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 a distributor and it could be a coil»

The early mornin' final edition’s on the stands

And 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