A cab combs the snake,
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Tryin' to rake in that last night's fare,
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And a solitary sailor
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Who spends the facts of his life like small change on strangers...
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Paws his inside P-coat pocket for a welcome twenty-five cents,
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And the last bent butt from a package of Kents,
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As he dreams of a waitress with Maxwell House eyes
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And marmalade thighs with scrambled yellow hair.
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Her rhinestone-studded moniker says, "Irene"
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As she wipes the wisps of dishwater blonde from her eyes
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And the Texaco beacon burns on,
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The steel-belted attendant with a 'Ring and Valve Special'...
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Cryin' "Fill'er up and check that oil"
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"You know it could be a distributor and it could be a coil."
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The early mornin' final edition's on the stands,
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And that town cryer's cryin' there with nickels in his hands.
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Pigs in a blanket sixty-nine cents,
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Eggs - roll 'em over and a package of Kents,
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Adam and Eve on a log, you can sink 'em damn straight,
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Hash browns, hash browns, you know I can't be late.
|
|
And the early dawn cracks out a carpet of diamond
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Across a cash crop car lot filled with twilight Coupe Devilles,
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Leaving the town in a-keeping
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Of the one who is sweeping
|
Up the ghost of Saturday night...
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-----------------
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The Ghosts Of Saturday Night (After Hours At Napoleone's Pizza House)
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| Tom Waits |
