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 your distributor and it could be your coil



The early mornin' final edition's on the stands

and the 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 down straight

Hash browns, hash browns, you know I can't be late



And the early dawn cracks out a carpet of diamonds

across a cash crop car lot, filled with twilight Coupe Devilles

leaving the town in the keeping

of the one who is sweeping

up the ghosts of Saturday night