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 peacoat 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 blond from her eyes
  And the Texaco beacon burns on
  A steel-belted attendant with a ring and valve special
  Crying Fill er up and check that oil
  You know it could be your distributor and it could be your coil
  The early morning final edition is on the stands
  And the town crier is crying 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 down straight
  Hash browns, hash browns, you know I cant be late
  And the early dawn cracks out a carpet of diamonds
  Across a cash crop car lot, filled with twilight Coupe Devilles
  Leaving the town in the keeping of the one who is sweeping
  Up the ghosts of Saturday night