The Ghosts Of Saturday Night (After Hour — текст песни (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

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 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 the keeping
Of the one who is sweeping
Up the ghosts of Saturday night...