The Ghosts Of Saturday Night (after Hours At Napoleone's Pizza House) Lyrics - Tom Waits

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 

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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 

Photos 

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