The Angel (Springsteen Bruce)

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 flatlands with a naked feel off into parts unknown