[bad word] 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 peacoat pocket for a [bad word] 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 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 can't 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