The Angel - Bruce Springsteen

The angel rides with hunchbacked 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 stroke 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 weatherbeaten 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

The woman strokes his polished chrome and lies beside the angel’s bones