Bruce Springsteen - The Angel

The angel rides with hunch-backed children, poison
oozing from his engine Wieldin' love as a lethal
weapon, on his way to hubcap heaven Baseball cards
poked in his spokes, his boots in oil he's
patiently soaked The roadside attendant nervously
jokes as the angel's tires strokes his precious pavement

The interstate's choked with nomadic hordes in
Volkswagen vans with full running boards dragging
great anchors followin' dead-end signs into the
sores The angel rides by humpin' his hunk metal whore

Madison Avenue's claim to fame in a trainer bra
with eyes like rain She rubs against the
weather-beaten frame and asks the angel for his
name Off in the distance the marble dome reflects
across the flatland with a naked feel off into parts unknown

The woman strokes his polished chrome
And lies beside the angel's bones