The Ghosts Of Saturday Night Lyrics - The Heart Of Saturday Night - 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 a distributor and it could be a coil" 

The early mornin' final edition's on the stands 

And 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