Ghosts Of Saturday Night

Each is actually /6 if you’re musician...you know what this means. 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            Bb7            Eb9    Outro Up the ghost of Saturday night...