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The Ghosts Of Saturday Night |
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(After Hours At Napoleone's Pizza House) |
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A cab combs the snake, tryin' to rake in that last night's fare |
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And a solitary sailor, who spends the facts of his life like small change on strangers |
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paws his inside P-coat pocket for a welcome twenty-five cents |
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and the last bent butt from a package of Kents |
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as he dreams of a waitress with Maxwell House eyes |
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and marmalade thighs with scrambled yellow hair |
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Her rhinestone-studded moniker says "Irene" |
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as she wipes the wisps of dishwater blonde from her eyes |
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And the Texaco beacon burns on |
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The steel-belted attendant with a "Ring and Valve Special"cryin': |
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Fill 'er up and check that oil |
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You know it could be your distributor and it could be your coil |
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The early mornin' final edition's on the stands |
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and the town cryer's cryin' there with nickels in his hands |
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Pigs in a blanket, sixty-nine cents |
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Eggs, roll 'em over, and a package of Kents |
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Adam and Eve on a log, you can sink 'em down straight |
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Hash browns, hash browns, you know I can't be late |
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And the early dawn cracks out a carpet of diamonds |
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across a cash crop car lot, filled with twilight Coupe Devilles |
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leaving the town in the keeping |
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of the one who is sweeping |
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up the ghosts of Saturday night |