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...




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