Lyric 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 a distributor and it could be a 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...