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 and 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 oilYou know it could be a distributor and it could be a coil.The early mornin final editions on the stands, and that 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...
Posted on: Tue, 12 Aug 2014 20:28:01 +0000
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