[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 P-coat 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'
 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 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 [bad word] 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
 Up the ghost of Saturday night

Read more: Tom Waits - The Ghosts Of Saturday Night Lyrics | MetroLyrics