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