|
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 |
|
The woman strokes his polished chrome and lies beside the angel's bones. |
