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."
 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