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Song title: Tom Waits - The Ghosts Of Saturday Night

Edit By: 216.73.217.128

(after hours at napoleones pizza house)

A cab combs the snake,
Tryin to rake in that last nights 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 filler up and check that oil
You know it could be a distributor and it could be a coil.

The early mornin final editions on the stands,
And that town cryers 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 cant 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...

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