text: 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 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