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