The Ghosts of Saturday Night — текст песни (Tom Waits)

(after hours at napoleones pizza house)



A cab combs the snake,

Tryin to rake in that last nights 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 "filler up and check that oil"

"you know it could be a distributor and it could be a coil."



The early mornin final editions on the stands,

And that town cryers 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 cant 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...